The Cold Is To Be Endured
by Enslavement-Thesis
Summary: Nothing is easy, but sometimes the things that are hard are impossible. When Orihime loses those that meant the most to her, she is faced with a life in Hueco Mundo. The overall question is not whether she can adapt, but whether she can endure. UlquiHime
1. Chapter 1

**The Cold Is To Be Endured.**

**Summary:** Nothing is easy, but sometimes the things that are hard are impossible. When Orihime loses those that meant the most to her, she is faced with a life in Hueco Mundo. The overall question is not whether she can adapt, but whether she can endure. Ulquiorra x Orihime. Hints of Grimmjow x Ichigo (If you squint).

**Rating:** M

**Author's Note:** Discontent with the ending of the Hueco Mundo Arc led to the development of this piece. It is AT, thank God.

Many thanks to both B- Corvus Corvidae -M and Eriea for BETAing this.

* * *

**Chapter One.**

His eyes were brown... they were brown, not yellow, and they belonged to him. They held a softness, a concerned vulnerability that was so rarely seen in them, but they were _his_ nonetheless and not a monster's. They were his and not her brother's and she was glad - so glad!

He stood before her, with the tragically happy look in his eyes that she could barely see because her own eyes were swimming in tears; not of sorrow, but of relief and joy. He was really _there_, just like she had imagined for so long in that white cell that was her home and her prison.

Nothing else existed in that moment but the both of them - not Hueco Mundo, not even Aizen. He took her hand, and it was engulfed by his. It was warm, human and alive, and she clung to it gratefully, because all she had known there was the cold.

They said nothing; nothing needed to be said. Everything that was said and could ever be said was reflected in each other's gaze.

He held her to him then, in one quick movement pulling her to his warm broad chest, and she could no longer hold back the tears that threatened. They flowed down tender cheeks and mingled in with the blood and the sweat that already stained his black robes.

"I am so glad you're okay, Inoue," He told her softly, and the cacophony of high-pitched wails that followed that statement made him smile. "And you too, Nel," He reassured the small girl swathed in rough green beside them. Her cries became delighted shouts of "Itsygoo!" before she attempted to once again crush his midsection.

Despite the death that surrounded them, both in the landscape and in the corpses that littered the path that they had taken, she knew that everything was going to be all right now that he was there beside her. His smile told her that she was home, and that was the only place that she wanted to be.

And so they left that last arena, skirting the bone-white body staked out like an offering with both their eyes and their hearts, and headed away from the moon and the ironically white fortress that was Aizen's domain.

XxX

In hindsight, Ichigo should have realised that it had been too easy.

They encountered next to no resistance from the Hollow (In fact, there were none), nor had any of the Espada accosted them.

Led by Nel, they trekked wearily along the unforgiving planes of sand, tree, and rock. It was impossible to tell exactly how much time had passed when they had set out, but it had at least been a few days.

It was definitely long enough for their bodies to begin to ache and protest. The never-ending night that was Hueco Mundo seemed to loom over them condescendingly, making it impossible to correctly establish the long grueling hours that had passed them. The moon hung above them smugly, as if it were mocking their quickly developing hunger and thirst.

Mournfully, Ichigo looked back on the packaged food and bottled water that Ishida had thought to bring, and wished desperately he knew where the hell Ishida was, and if he had any more. The redhead doubted that he did, but it didn't hurt to wonder.

His mouth felt as if he had tried to eat the sand beneath his feet, and his stomach was informing him that he most definitely had not - or anything else for that matter. His spittle had dried in the corners of his parched mouth, and his eyes were dry and burning and he was slowly becoming overwhelmed with the need for water.

No. He refused to pity himself. Inoue was suffering as much, if not more than he was.

He turned to look at her from the corner of his eye, and his chest ached in pity. Her hair was caked in sand and sweat and hung lankly like an old curtain, and her lips were cracked and sore looking. Her eyes were bloodshot from the incessant wind and the constant sandstorms; she looked utterly exhausted, but she had not voiced one word of complaint.

Her strength sometimes overwhelmed him.

He was not trudging close enough to her to reach out his hand and to clasp hers, so instead he spoke. "Hey, Inoue."

She turned to look at him with grey eyes that, despite everything, were still so full of hope. "Kurosaki?" Her voice was hoarse.

She was probably the toughest girl he had ever met, and he respected her for it, but she was still fragile, and she needed something to hold on to.

Someone to protect her.

"You know we're gunna be okay, don't you?"

And she smiled then. A small, genuine smile that chipped away at the streaks of off-white sand. She looked like an old, wretched woman, her chapped and dirty face cracked and flaky. Ichigo thought she had never looked so adamantly beautiful.

"I know," She said softly.

And suddenly, it was. This was only one more obstacle to overcome.

And overcome it they would. They had to: if there were any justice in the world then it would allow them to leave: it would be too cruel for them to survive the monstrous denizens of Hueco Mundo, only to be murdered by the landscape.

Firstly: they needed to regain their strength. If they couldn't find somewhere to rest, and find at least something to stave off their dehydration, then they would both be in a lot of trouble.

He couldn't do that to her, not after everything that she had been through - that they all had been through. As he turned to ask Nel if there was anything in this godforsaken dump to drink, and perhaps to rest, something to the left caught his eye.

It was a tree.

The tree itself was of no significance - in fact, it was the exact type of tree sparsely littered through the expansive desert that stubbornly refused to die: stunted**,** bent and black as if it had been burnt.

No, what had caught Ichigo's eye about this particular tree were the three lowest branches: they were snapped in half.

This wouldn't have really been important: but he knew that they had passed that precise tree a number of hours ago. He knew this because he was the one that had broken the branches when he had been tripped up by a young Arrancar that was still overly enthusiastic with his overall wellbeing.

His jaw clenched.

He should have known.

They were both short. And really loud. They even had, but for the colour, the same hair. He should have seen the resemblance.

If he had have known that a certain Arrancar was related to an incredibly tiny Luitenant, he would have tried to find his own damn way out of Hueco Mundo!

"What the hell, Nel?!" He demanded of said Arrancar, turning to her, "I thought you knew where you were going! You're leading us in circles!"

If he wasn't so exhausted, he probably would have grabbed her by the foot and given her a good shake.

She had been wasting precious time - more than just a few hours was at stake in this, and here she was playing an elaborate game of Ring-A-Rosie.

He couldn't help the anger, born of dehydration and worry, that flooded him.

The tiny child drew herself up and huffed at him; "O' course I knows where I'm goin'!" She informed him with all of the fury that a young child can possess, "We is goin' da right way!"

Obviously, they weren't.

"Then why are we passing the exact same tree that we did, like, six hours ago?"

She stopped and looked at him, and then at the tree in question, her eyes wide in puzzlement. "Itsygo can tell da diffwense between all da twees?" She paused, and then looked rather impressed, "Can Itsygo talk to twees?"

"No, moron! You made me break a bunch of the branches when you tripped me up before." His exhaustion was making him snappier than he usually would be, he knew, and he felt a little remorseful when the look she levelled on him was filled with insurmountable offense and a little genuine hurt.

"Ya' din't need ta yell!" She yelled, "If ya din't have big stampy feets then ya woodn't a stomped on me!"

She demonstrated what she obviously thought was a spot-on impression of his 'Big stampy feets', and he scowled exasperatedly, but tried to contain himself.

Taking his frustration out on her would get them nowhere and would just upset her. He pinched the bridge of his nose and took a few deep breaths until he felt he could use what Yuzu had affectionately named his inside voice.

"Nel," He explained gently, when he had calmed somewhat, "Inoue and I need some --"

He broke off as then their world shimmered and slowly began to melt. The off white of the sand brightened, turning the clinical white of a hospital room and inexorably, the moon and the darkness that was the sky began to fade to white.

The broken tree that had been under scrutiny mere seconds earlier twisted grotesquely, eerily silent as it contemptuously broke the laws of physics to bend, stretch and mutate.

Something unfathomable and loathsome clawed at his gut as the lifeless wood laboriously took on a form it should on no account be able to take - the form of a man.

A man in black and white robes, with impossibly broad shoulders, and a handsome face, graced by a genial smile that was somehow horrible in its lack of malevolence. It peeked out in a friendly manner while the black wooden bones gyrated, as if they were trying desperately to defend the form that they had begun with.

The soft chuckle that pattered like rain drops from his kindly lips was drowned by Ichigo's snarl of fury and the gleeful hiss of a drawn zanpakutou, the spitting whisper of lethal metal seeming to imitate its master's rage.

It made sense!

Nel wasn't leading them in circles: they hadn't been going anywhere in the first place. How could he have been so blind, so _utterly stupid_?

The Sword of Deceit.

It did its job well. How much of that illusion was genuine, and how much mere trickery? His eyes darted around, taking in his surroundings - the half desert, half hospital that melded together unnaturally, hurting his eyes, playing tricks on his vision. His body shifted into a fighting stance that was as natural as breathing.

And that wonderfully awful face spoke.

"After the lengths in which I had gone to obtain her," It said conversationally, "Do you think I would just let her leave?"

Ichigo's lip twisted. "_Ban-"_

Then a light of such brilliant beauty, of such a dazzling green that Ichigo was temporarily awestruck, flew towards the sky. It was almost as if it had come from him.

He knew that light: it was familiar but he couldn't place it. It was puzzling, because he was certain beyond a shadow of a doubt that it could not possibly originate from him.

In his confusion, he looked downwards, towards his chest, where blood was welling from the gaping wound in his sternum. It made sense that it didn't come from him, but from behind him - _through_ him.

The blood was oozing from the hole (Like a Hollows) and he could taste it in the back of his throat, and it was his blood, it was his own blood all over him, and the smell of his own burning flesh in his nostrils. He suddenly felt nauseous, and then the pain came.

He tried to scream but it came out a choked gurgle, and more of that brilliant red gushed out of his mouth to join the river running down his front. It was agony, pure agony. There were dark spots in his vision: he couldn't see properly, and it terrified him. How could he fight Aizen if he couldn't see Aizen?

He swayed drunkenly on the spot and finally collapsed, trying to keep a hold of Zengetsu in fingers that were going numb and cold.

And then there was nothing.

"Kurosaki!" Inoue cried in horror and in terror as Ulquiorra's green Ray Cero tore a gaping hole in his chest. "_Kurosaki!"_

She was rooted to the spot: her disbelief staying her more effectively than any bind could have. It was silent, so silent. Even the wind had stopped blowing, as if it too were shocked, and nothing moved. It was as if that one moment, that one horrible moment had been frozen.

And then a sound started slowly, an undulating, awful sound that hurt her head and it slowly penetrated her conscious. Slowly, groggily she **realised** that it was the young girl Arrancar. Nel was shrieking, her sobs ear-piercing while she clutched the cracked bone that crowned her.

Ichigo. He was standing there, looking down at himself in the utmost shock, as if he had never seen his own blood before.

His own blood. He was covered in it.

Red everywhere.

Everywhere.

Everything was moving: no, she was moving. She could feel the sand beneath her sandalled feet, sand that was almost stone, but wasn't quite yet and so was suspended between. She was running.

It had become more and more real for her: she was running towards him, tripping and almost falling over a small green bundle but not bothering to stop, because Kurosaki needed her, he needed help - he needed to be healed! He needed her to reject what had happened: to make it asit was before, because it was Kurosaki and something like this couldn't happen - he couldn't die, it just wasn't possible!

All Orihime could see was the man before her as she ran towards him, and it did not quite click in her mind that the black haired monstrosity was no longer standing behind him, nor did she make the connection when two white clad arms wrapped around her abdomen and tightened, stronger than steel.

She beat at them, tearing at them with her fingernails and her voice and her desperation but they did not relent for any of those things. _Kurosaki needed her!_ She kicked and elbowed and bit and wriggled but her struggles were ineffectual at best.

She screamed when he fell, his sword falling with him, sliding limply from his lax fingers.

The sound tore at her throat like iron hooks, just as the look of surprise on his face tore at her heart. She reached for him with fingers curled into miserable talons as her tears carved their painful way down her face.

The little girl did what she could not. She ran to Kurosaki, her robe flopping around her legs. It became stained a deep red as Nel fell to her knees at Ichigo's side, shaking him as if he were just asleep and she were trying to wake him.

But he just lay there in the puddle of his own making, his skin so pale and his body so still. So unnaturally still.

Orihime's tears kept flowing, and her voice was raw and hoarse from agony and exhaustion. It hurt so much, but she couldn't stop.

Why couldn't he get up? He had survived so much worse than this, so why wouldn't he just get up?

"Get up, Kurosaki," She sobbed - no, begged. "Get up..."

"He can't. He will be dead soon," A voice told her impassively. She riled against it.

"_You can't say that!_" She shrieked, hysterical. "Let me _go!_"

Ulquiorra's grip tightened around her waist. "I cannot."

"I HATE YOU!"

Inoue had never spoken those words before. That tiny fraction of her self buried beneath the horror and the hurt wished dearly to unsay those words; to recoil from them.

But she didn't care enough to try. Ichigo wouldn't get up, and it was all his fault. She had never felt so helpless; not even when her brother had lain in that awful white bed, plugged into horrid beeping machines.

"Your feelings towards me are irrelevant," The Espada said finally, his voice perilously close to her ear.

"...Ichigo," She whispered, her strength failing. It was too much.

Kurosaki's lifeless body was lying in a widening patch of crimson - the _redblackblooddeath_ was staining bone sand dark, and Nell was keening, her high-pitched sob of grief rending the air.

It was too much.

It was just too much.

Her trembling legs gave way, unable to take both the weight of her body and the sheer hopelessness and overwhelming horror and misery that assaulted her. Deceptively strong arms caught her featherweight with consummate ease. She didn't even try to push him away this time. Orihime could feel his slight breath puffing evenly against her ear, and it revolted her.

"Please take her back to her room," Aizen's voice was gentle, as if he understood what an ordeal she was enduring. A dull sense of fury washed over her at that, but Orihime felt as though it was far away and unconnected; like it was happening to someone else.

"Yes, Aizen," She felt those slim arms shift, maneuvering her so that she leant against a slim side, his arm wedged beneath her armpit. The Espada's hipbone dug into her thigh, and he was squeezing her ribs much too tightly.

And then they moved, and the landscape became a mere blur.


	2. Chapter 2

Thankyou for all of the kind reviews. To clear up a few issues, and for this she apologises, yes, this is an Ulquiorra x Orihime piece.

There is also Ichigo x Grimmjow, but you're going to have to check it up with a microscope.

Just a note, if you read this and don't like it, please do this girl a favour and don't press the back button. Constructive critisism is very important to her. Not meaning to review whore so much here.

Thankyou.

o

**Chapter Two.**

It was cold.

It was always cold here.

Her room was large, white and square, and it reminded her of the freezers where they hang dead animals- so cold and stark and white, like how she imagined death to be.

She hated it here.

A metal cart; as clinical as the rest of her surroundings stood untouched by her bedside. She had her back to it, choosing instead to face the wall and stare off into space. Her arm had gone numb long ago, and her hip ached from lying in one position, but she could not bring herself to shift.

How long had it been since they bought her back to this lifeless little room? Hours, days, months? It could have even been years, she couldn't tell. All she could see were four white walls and a window in which the moon slyly peeked in, winking at her with its solitary eye as if they shared some kind of secret nobody else was privy to.

She knew that there would most likely be repercussions for the meals she had left uneaten until they were removed, but the mere thought of eating turned her stomach and left a sour taste in her mouth. She could not bring herself to even attempt it.

Kurosaki was...gone.

Just like that.

And For all she knew, the other's were too. How could she eat when she was responsible for someone's death? They had come here to save her, _to save her_, and she had led them to their own demise.

She had seen Kurosaki bleed to death like a stuck pig on the sand, and she had felt Rukia's and Chad's reiatsu diminish to the point of no return. Of the other two, she had no clue, but she could no longer feel the flutter of their spirit against hers, and it terrified her, because what if they had met the same fate as Ichigo...?

She wouldn't cry anymore - couldn't cry anymore, but she could not muster the will to do more than just lay there. That was all she wanted, just to lay there forever in the cold hard bed.

She felt as if she were was stuck in limbo; hopelessness bending her backwards inexorably towards breaking.

She would only be kept alive until she had outgrown her usefulness to Aizen, she knew: in reality that wasn't so long. But in the end, things came as they came, no sooner and no later than they were supposed to, and when they did, then she could see his smile again, and she could finally go back home.

A grinding whine from the door broke the silence, announcing a visitor, but she did not bother to turn around to see who had entered. After all, it could only be one person, and that one person was the last one she wished to see.

Hopefully he would think she was asleep and just leave.

"You have not eaten," He said instead, and inwardly she sighed. Unsure whether he was making an observation or if he thought that she didn't know and was deigning to inform her, she kept quiet. If she said nothing he would either get annoyed and go away, or he would get annoyed, tell her off and then go away. Both of these options ended in his leaving, so she figured that she would win whether or not she got a lecture.

"Why haven't you eaten your meal?" She noticed absently that his tone didn't change at all. Still, she said nothing.

There was a long silence.

"Why have you not eaten?" He asked again, and to his credit his voice still hadn't changed, even though she knew that he was irritated.

Eventually; "I wasn't hungry," She said dully.

"I have been informed that you have not consumed anything for a few days, woman."

She didn't bother to reply.

"Is it because I killed the shinigami?" The way he asked it, he may as well have been asking about the weather.

She stiffened.

Kurosaki...

She could feel his cold green gaze on her. "I see," He said, "It is. Refusing to eat will change nothing."

_Don't you think I know that! _She thought, tears that she thought past prickling her eyelids.

Why could he always effect her like this?

"Please go away," Inoue whispered.

"Are you grieving?" He seemed mildly curious. Her fingers wound in thin snowy sheets and tightened. She felt sick, images of her dead saviour in her head and her ears ringing with cruel words that were not intended as cruel, but were born of ignorance and were making her insides broil and turn in a million directions.

"Do you wish the shinigami were still alive?" He asked.

"Please," She begged, desperate, "Just leave."

"I am under orders not to leave until you have eaten something."

Her gut protested that vigorously. "I'm not hungry," She repeated, defiance tightening her jaw.

"That is irrelevant," Orihime was informed. "It is your duty to care for yourself, as it is mine to kill those who defy Aizen."

He was needling her now, she knew, and it infuriated her. She sat up abruptly, whirling viciously around to glare at hm, but dizziness, borne of exhaustion and hunger forced her to close her eyes to ward herself against it.

"You have not bathed since your return," He continued relentlessly, "Nor have you eaten. You are weak, you look awful and you can be smelt from where I am standing. It is disgusting and it can no longer be allowed."

"I don't care!" She cried out suddenly, the loudness of her own voice making her jump. He looked at her impassively. "It doesn't matter anymore," She said, her voice softer, "Everyone is dead. Everyone except for me. Don't you see? I couldn't help them; they tried to save me and I couldn't even help them."

He said nothing, merely looked at her with his eyes like two shards of green agate as she tucked her knees to her ample chest and curled her slender arms around them, burying her face in the white pants she wore. They were still travel stained.

He said nothing for a very long time.

"Their deaths were their own fault," He eventually told her, "Do not grieve for their stupidity and be thankful that it was not you."

The words were like acid to her; bitter and scalding.

She couldn't stand them.

"Shu tup."

He was silent.

Orihime wrenched her head up, her eyes like storm clouds, "_Shut up!_ You always say thing like that! You don't know anything, you don't understand anything and you don't know anything about sadness or grief because you are a monster!"

Orihime was shocked at herself. She didn't think herself capable of such awful thoughts. The Fourth Espada seemed to bring out the worst in her.

She was panting with exertion from the force of her outburst, and she closed her eyes to stave off another dizzy spell.

He spoke against the darkness, and his voice was hard.

"You say these things as if they were bad. But these things you claim I need turn you into something weak and pathetic. I do not need, nor do I desire anything that will make me like you are. Now, eat."

A pale hand pushed the trolley towards her, and she finally looked down to what was resting there. A small plate with two pieces of bread and a glass of water graced the small surface.

"...Uh,"

Her anger seemed to falter somewhat: even it was not quite sure how to react to the unexpectedly sparse meal. She turned to look at him quizzically and he pursed his lips slightly.

She blinked. That was the first expression she had ever seen him make.

"Your stomach will be unable to handle anything more substantial," He said bluntly, and it was an explanation, and she was a little grateful for it.

It didn't make her any more inclined to eat it though.

Stubbornness decided that it was planning to run the show for a while, so she allowed it to take the reins: it wanted to give Ulquiorra the cold shoulder. She thought this was a good idea, so she turned her face away pointedly from him and rested her cheek on her knee.

His reaction was somewhat unexpected.

A sharp pain on her scalp made her cry out as her entire head was pulled back with a thick clump of her red hair. He took advantage of her wide open mouth to shove something soggy and wholly disgusting in there, and she choked in protest.

She tried to spit it out, but as quickly as he had grabbed the tangled tresses, Ulquiorra grabbed her jaw and forced it shut, pinching her nose closed in the process.

"Swallow," He told her coldly. Her shock and her utter fury shoved stubbornness brutally out of the way, warred with each other for dominance before coming to a truce and using their collective forces in equal measure.

The bread was cold and sludgy and it was breaking apart in her mouth and her stomach was informing her that if she tried to put _that_ in it, she had another thing coming.

However, the need to breathe eventually overruled her stubbornness and her nausea, and she swallowed it, gagging as it slid down her throat and her insides did a few somersaults. He let her go and she drew air into her starving lungs in hoarse gasps, coughing and choking and trying desperately to keep that tiny morsel from making its way back up, if such a thing were possible.

Before she had entirely recovered, she found another slightly larger, but just as soggy piece of bread pushed into her mouth before a cool hand tried to suffocate her again. She didn't last very long during the second round at all, gulping it down less than ten seconds after the Espada decided he wanted to see if humans really needed oxygen.

He let her settle down that time, until her wheezing had abated somewhat and the bile had settled. She looked at him through watery eyes, and coughed a little.

"We can continue to do this like that, or you can behave yourself."

She considered refusing. She very seriously considered it. She knew it would make his life difficult and she would like to do that very much.

She had never thought herself a vengeful person, but the things that he had done to her, regardless as to whether or not he did them of his own volition made her think that he deserved everything he got. She wondered how difficult it would be if she threw up on him.

But she couldn't quite bring herself to do it.

She would think about it as much as she liked, but in the end she knew that she just couldn't be so purposefully mean natured.

She watched him slowly tear another rough square of bread off of a slice, and dip it into the cup of water until it swelled and tiny pieces of it began to break off. He offered it to her, and resignedly, but not without resentment, she reached up to take it, gritting her teeth when he jerked it away from her fingers. The look he gave her told her that he did not trust her one iota, and he moved it closer to her mouth. He wanted her to take it from his hand like a dog! The nerve!

He waved it in front of her lips warningly, and with a baleful stare, she reluctantly opened her mouth. He deftly placed it on her tongue and the water trickled over it. The redhead shut her mouth and swallowed it without chewing, forcing herself to ignore the sick feeling that ensued. It had lessened a little anyway.

He offered her another small white square, and she allowed him to put it in her mouth, getting rid of it as quickly as she could.

"I have to feed you as if you are a child," He murmured, "Or an animal."

She did not bother responding, she just took the next piece, while he watched her with the same expression that he always wore, whether he was visiting her, or speaking to Aizen (or the other Espada) or fighting...or committing murder.

He had watched Kurosaki's blood stain the ground with that same bland expression, with those same dead eyes.

She hated those eyes. Eyes so devoid of life, of will, should not be so vibrant in colour, should not be a green of such breathtaking vividness that they were almost lurid. They should be black, or grey, something dark and dull and lifeless to reflect what was behind them.

The tracks that scarred his cheeks were so bitterly ironic that it made her want to tear out her own hair, because she knew that he couldn't cry. Monster's don't cry, and he was a monster - not because he was an Espada, but because he felt nothing.

She couldn't look at him anymore. She stared down at the bread he was handfeeding her, feeling his alien eyes on her as she mechanically opened her mouth and took what he gave her, watching her intently, as if she were a needlessly complicated movie that he feared not understanding if he missed one second of it. How could something so intense hold nothing inside of it? How could he recognise what he saw, what he sought in her if he were just a machine of flesh and blood?

He had to feel something, he just had to. He was once a Hollow, who was once a human, so that meant that he had to have felt something once, and maybe still did, even if it was buried under mountains of apathy. He had to! She couldn't bring herself to believe that he was always as heartless as he was now.

"What happened?" She blurted suddenly, unable to stop herself. "What happened to make you like this? What was so awful that you won't even let yourself feel good things?" She had to know - he was human once, and even the other Espada felt! She thought of Grimmjow, the evidence of his torment before his defeat.

He made a sudden movement, and for one crazy second she thought he was going to hit her, but he only straightened and distastefully brushed the hand he had fed her with on his thigh.

"I exist only to serve," His voice was cold...and, angry? "Your yammering, your ridiculous questions, your odour and your pathetic crying. All of these things offend me, and you will desist. Please remember that were it not for Aizen's orders, I would have killed you long ago," He paused. "You have eaten enough."

There was still half a piece of bread left.

He turned his back and walked evenly from the room, his heels clicking while she stared at the trolley. They stopped, and she turned her pale face to the door, in which he stood, his back to her but his head turned so that he could see her with one solitary eye.

"Stop looking for what isn't there. I am not what you are hoping I am."

And he left without another word, the sound of his footsteps lost in the bustle of the two female Arrancar in white robes that rushed in and took her meal, their broken masks shining dully in the light.

Confusion, weariness and perhaps a little regret weighed down her bones. His reaction was very unexpected. She watched the unfamiliar women manouvre the metal cart out of the doorway -one pushing, one pulling- and in to the hall. There were two different girls for every day: Aizen didn't trust her, even though he knew that even considering taking advantage of another was impossible.

Briefly her mind flashed back to the two that had snuck into her quarters when Ulquiorra had been distracted: the ones that Grimmjow had saved her from, before he had demanded she save Ichigo. Perhaps it was the other's that he didn't trust?

..Ichigo, who had died anyway by the same hand that but for her would have slain him the first time. Despite everything she had done, she had changed nothing.

The cold crept its sluggish way through her. It was the kind of cold that started from the inside, in the heart, and worked its way slowly through the rest of the system until it reached the very tips of her fingers and toes. It was cold that nothing could touch; not hot chocolate, or sake or even the most brilliant sun. It was the cold of the soul, and there was no true relief from it anywhere.

She lay back down, and images of fiery hair that matched hers and a smile of the most infinite sadness ran through her mind over and over, as if it were a broken CD that just kept skipping and replaying the same line over and over, but you couldn't quite change it to the next track.

The next day, when her meal of bread and water came, so did the pale man with the helmet of bone, and he stood by her door until she had finished what she could, but he didn't say a word.

Then again, neither did she.


	3. Chapter 3

Smiles Once again, many thanks for the reviews that she has recived, she appreciates every single one of them greatly.

She realises now that she probably gave the wrong impression with her writing, as was pointed out by Hinodeh. She never meant to imply that Ichigi and Orihime were together, or that he was romantically interested in her. It was just that the both of them were glad that each of them were alive and okay.

Hinodeh also made a small point about the characterisation of Orihime, and the fact that she is well, a little emo. This is all a part of the grieving process, and it won't last forever. She will become a little more like the Orihime we all saw and loved, but alas, these kinds of things take time.

Once again, many thanks for Eriea for BETAing, she's very grateful. This chapter may be re-edited as well, because she made a few unadulterated changes after it was first looked over.

So all of you, please enjoy, and apologies for such a longwinded Author Note.

**Chapter Three.**

Her days consisted of thoughts of Ichigo. Bathing, thoughts of Ichigo, thoughts of the other three, thoughts of Ichigo, and then a little food while unnaturally green eyes with slitted pupils watched her. Then she was left to a broken sleep, prolific with dreams about Ichigo that she awoke from sweating and crying and trying to wipe his blood from her hands.

At some point the meals changed from bread and water to something more substantial, and she was grateful.

"Do you miss your shinigami?" His voice made her jump. This was the first thing he had said to her in over a fortnight. She looked askance at him, but he did not say anything more.

"Every day." She said eventually, softly.

She didn't bother telling him that he was never hers to begin with.

"Why?" His eyes mapped her face.

She looked at him for a very long time, weighing up her answer. Then told him, "You wouldn't understand," before going back to pick at her food, because she wasn't hungry anymore.

He left then.

And so this continued. He would come daily, always at the same time, and watch her. At first it made her uncomfortable, somebody watching her eat, and then she learned to ignore him. Sometimes they would exchange words - they didn't talk, because a conversation required a level of comfort that just wasn't there. Most of the time, they wouldn't, but unfailingly, he would ask her the same question, and she would always answer the same way. That he wouldn't understand. Because he wouldn't.

Slowly, the nightmares became less frequent, and with Kurosaki's desperate face slowly dissipating from her dreams, she slept better. She began to eat more. She spoke more freely to Ulquiorra, even if he didn't speak back, and smiles began to frequent her lips more often. It became a little easier to laugh.

And, finally, Inoue Orihime began to feel a bit more like herself again.

The door opened with its customary breathy groan, and Orihime tore her gaze away from where she had been looking for patterns in the cracks of the ceiling, surprised.

She blinked owlishly at the much brighter light streaming in. She was fairly certain that it was far too early for dinner (lunch had only just been taken away).

It was.

The figure silhouetted in the doorframe was taller, broader and shaggier than the one she had come to expect in the evenings. He stalked in, his gait peculiarly uneven and the click of his heels much too harsh over the hiss of the shutting door.

At least he used it this time.

"What?" He demanded irritably, crossing his arms, "You didn't think that brat could have finished me off, did you?"

Her heart panged a little.

"I am glad that you are alive," She said softly, because she was.

"You're a crap liar, chick," He told her.

Orihime said nothing.

His hair was short again, and he looked much different from when she saw him last; his body fluid and feline, but he was still Grimmjow Jaggerjack.

He stalked over to the bed, the light casting his harsh features into respect and making his slanted eyes seem exotic and brilliant. He stood by her, and she sat up a little warily, unsure of his intentions. He only propped his shoulder against the wall, and bared his teeth in something that could have been either a smirk or a snarl, she wasn't sure which.

She looked at him then, really looked at him. It was evident that he still hadn't recovered completely from his injuries, even though it had nearly been a month, and her heart gave another little twinge. She wondered if she should offer to heal him.

He seemed to sense her pity though, and his icy glare was enough to make her shrink back from him and reconsider the offer.

Even though, something seemed...off.

Not a particularly perceptive girl - some people had often referred to her as quite obtuse - even Orihime could see that something was not quite right with the Sixth Espada.

It was niggling at her; tugging her conscious like a small child at the hem of their mother's skirt.

He was fidgeting and dragging his fingers through his pale hair, and his glare, usually so focused, seemed to be projected wildly all about the room. Everywhere except for her. She sat patiently, and waited for whatever it was that he seemed to have on his mind.

It didn't take long.

He cursed.

She blinked, and wondered whether or not she should mention something, because saying words like that was bad manners; but she didn't get the chance.

"Tell me about the brat," He snapped suddenly, and she blinked again. "About Ichigo. Tell me about him."

Her gaze was on his face, but he refused to meet it with his own. Instead, he stared resolutely at something on the opposite wall.

What would he want to know about Kurosaki?

More importantly, why?

And why wasn't he laughing?

His face was etched unfamiliarly, with lines of gravity that were so out of place on his harsh face that they made her think twice about asking him politely to leave.

If he was being cruel to her, he would laugh at her. He laughed all the time, even at things that weren't funny. She even recalled him laughing when he killed that girl Espada, Luppi, while she looked on in horror and the knowing despair of somebody who had unwittingly attributed to a crime.

Or was Luppi a boy? She could never tell.

Maybe she/he was one of those 'Lady boy's' from Thailand that Keigo had told her about, before Tatsuki had thumped him so hard his eyes had crossed.

But, Luppi didn't look Thai...

A snarled _"Well?"_ bought her back to the present time rather uncomfortably. She abandoned thoughts of boy's dressing up like girl's in favour of examining the Sixth Espada, searching for signs of fallacy. She could find none.

She was puzzled.

Why would he ask her such a thing?

Then, she thought of him seeking out the substitute shinigami, demanding battle after battle. Making her heal him just so they could fight at their full potential, and the peculiar way that they interacted, that kind of rivalry as much competition as it was enmity.

About how Grimmjow had said that the redhead was like him.

...Perhaps she did know after all.

And then she wanted to tell him.

So she did.

"His mother died," She said to the hands that were nervously coiled around each other in her lap. "Rukia told me she was eaten by a Hollow. He lived with his two sister's, and his dad. They own a medical clinic. That's a place where --"

"I know what the hell a clinic is." He snarled, and she fell silent, but he didn't say anything else, so hesitantly, she started again.

She was uncertain at first, and it was difficult.

It was as if all of the time that she had spent trying to put Kurosaki out of her mind had sealed all of him away from her, and she felt a little fear.

What if she had locked the thoughts away in a huge safe in the back of her mind and she couldn't get them back?

But as she thought harder. "Hmm"ing aloud helped - even if the Espada was looking at her as if the noise was personally offensive.

She remembered Ichigo frowning, Ichigo scowling, Ichigo glaring at Hat-And-Sandal man and Ichigo yelling and punching Keigo.

And once or twice, she even remembered him smiling.

And holding her. Before a green robed child tried to bust him in half.

Before...he was gone.

But she refused to let herself think of that. She chanced another glance at the rough man propped near her bed. He was staring at the floor, on his face an assumed look of pinched boredom.

But he was too focused; he was holding himself so still, that she thought that perhaps it wasn't completely true.

And so she took a deep breathe, steeled herself, and continued the onslaught. It was if there was a dam inside of her, holding such thoughts back, and she just kept poking holes in it.

It was leaking more and more of the Kurosaki Ichigo inside of her: Ichigo frowning, glaring, sulking, pouting, snarling, snapping, smiling.

Laughing.

Ichigo refusing to leave his friends behind. Ichigo helping perfect strangers. Ichigo helping his enemies. Ichigo protecting people.

It was as if it it was Kurosaki against the world.

Kurosaki Ichigo, and his_ resolve_.

And the dam broke.

She could barely keep up with herself, as it tumbled out from wherever it had hidden, bypassing her cognition and just falling straight from her mouth. She was probably not making sense and was jumpng all over the place, but she could care less.

He used to scare her when they were at school, he always looked angry. He was good friends with Tatsuki, who was her best friend.

Her brother was a Hollow, a monster with a familiar face: Kurosaki saved her, and her brother went to a better place, and she was wasn't scared of him anymore.

He always tried to protect everyone, no matter who they were. He always tried to do things by himself because he never wanted anybody else to get hurt, and everyone was always tearing their hair out because he would sometimes disappear for days or even weeks on end to train without a word to anybody.

He had saved Rukia from Soul Society, desperately injured. He fought captains and vice-captains and guys who weren't vice captains but pretty strong anyway and then there was that really big guy at the gate that he defeated in like _one move_ - but she stayed with that guy and healed him!

When she mentioned his training with Urahara Kisuke trained prior to going to do all of the awesome things at Soul Society, Grimmjow demanded to know more, but she couldn't tell him much.

Instead, she told him about how Hat-And-Sandal Guy always picked on Ichigo, which she thought was funny.

She thought his hat was kind of cool.

There was more; the Bounto and how he and Ishida became friends (though neither of them would admit that that was what they were) and his deal with Chad and his relationship with Rukia, and the fight with Renji that also ended in a friendship. Ichigo always beat up people before he became friends with them, she noted.

Except for Tatsuki. She always beat the heck out of him.

It was a pity that he died before he could become friend's with Grimmjow, she thought, but she didn't say that out loud.

And then she remembered seeing him train before Ulquiorra took her away, and the little brat with the mask that made him eat dirt and she laughed.

She recalled Ichigo's disgruntled curses while a girl who looked younger than his littlest sister ran rings around him and the Espada smirked, and then looked annoyed that he had done so, and Orihime laughed again, and her grin felt as if it were splitting her face.

And then she went quiet, and there was a silence between them, that although was not quite companionable, it was not full of the tension that it usually was, and she was grateful. Orihime stood and turned to fully face Grimmjow, and stretched her smile even further to include him, as if she could project how thankful she was for what he had done in one single expression.

He didn't return the smile, but the bored, slightly irritated mask that he had affectated was somehow even less convincing, and that was enough.

Maybe she wasn't alone after all.

But then Grimmjow glanced over her shoulder, and stiffened. His face darkened. She turned to follow his gaze and she tensed, and the moment dissipated like blood in water, and if she had not have been so distracted she would have been disappointed.

Ulquiorra stood there.

"It is time for her meal. You must leave," He said bluntly, his voice a shade colder than usual.

Grimmjow eyed him belligerently. "And why should I?"

Ulquiorra said nothing. He didn't need to. Everybody knew that nobody but the Fourth Espada was to enter Orihime Inoue's quarters, by orders of Aizen.

Orihime stood between the two, feeling like a particularly small and insignificant rabbit being snarled over by foxes. She noticed that the door was open and she wondered if she were to run through it, would they even notice, so intent on the other they were.

Eventually the small battle that had ensued ended as they often did, with one conceding defeat.

"Hn." Grimmjow snorted and shoved off the wall, "Whatever."

He stalked out of her small room, his displeasure manifesting into a violent bump of the shorter man's shoulder on his way out, hard enough to make even Orihime wince.

Ulquiorra barely even moved.

They stood in silence. The red head felt as if she should apologise for Grimmjow's rudeness, but only looked down at her feet uncomfortably. She felt as if she was doing something wrong, but she didn't know what or even why she felt that way. It was as if she hadn't done her homework or...was caught kissing some boy behind the classrooms during lunch and it was awkward.

"You have left your bed," He noted. His voice was still different, and it was worrying her more than it should have.

"Oh, uh...yes," She stammered, unable to shake the feeling of having her hand caught in the proverbial cookie jar. She hadn't left it much since she had been taken back, and never when Ulquiorra was there, but she wasn't quite sure why that was important.

Or why her stomach was churning with an indeterminable guilt that she couldn't quite fathom the cause of. Was she feeling guilty because Grimmjow had visited her?

He advanced towards her, and she recoiled instinctively, before she caught herself.

_Stop it!_ She scolded, shocked by her own foolishness, _you're being silly!_

"How long were you standing there?" Orihime blurted out.

"Long enough to be surprised that the Sixth did not notice my presence." There seemed to be something more behind those words. Something she didn't entirely grasp. And it made the churning worse.

He stepped closer to her: now he was only a mere few feet away.

She crossed her arms defensively, in a seemingly unconscious gesture.

"Why were you talking about the Shinigami to the Sixth Espada?"

Oh.

He must have been standing there a while to discern what she was talking about.

"I think I kind of inflicted it on him," She tried to look sheepish, "He asked me how...um...well, how I make...pancakes! Yes! Pancakes! And I remembered that Kurosaki _loved _pancakes, and I just started talking! Oh, I feel kind of sorry for him, having to listen to me talk for goodness knows how long! Lucky for him you came and saved him!"

To say that the look he had levelled on her was disbelieving would be making an understatement, and Orihime wilted just a little.

"I would have thought Grimmjow Jaggerjack would not be the type to allow his judgment to be swayed by social niceties." Ulquiorra said flatly, and she knew that he knew that she was lying.

She felt even guiltier than she had before, for lying. She hated lying, but that was mostly because she wasn't very good at it. Well, she wasn't exatly lying anyway. She _was _talking about Kurosaki. She was just...twisting the truth a little.

However, personal feelings and savvy Espda notwithstanding, she would not be detered!

Shrugging noncommittally, Orihime wondered if he would buy it if she changed her mind and said that they were talking about King Aizen. He always

The squeak of wheels and the tick-tick-tick of small heels interrupted them as two Arrancar brought in her food cart, their eyes averted from the Espada. With furtive, worried movements and many sidealong glances to the Fourth's sandaled feet, they bought it within a respectable distance from the door and then all but fled.

She felt for them.

However, the subject of their poorly hidden distress seemed completely unfazed, and merely stood far too close to her, looking for all the world like a blank canvas.

Inoue shifted and glanced behind him to the metal trolley which had her meal on it. She could smell whatever was on there, and it smelt fantastic. The meals that were cooked for her, although a little boring to the palette, were always quite delicious, and she looked forwards to them. This one more than most - she was surprisingly hungry, considering all she had done was talk.

"Why do you miss the Shinigami?" He asked her, as he always did, and, distracted, she raised her eyes to his. He had taken another step closer; now he was right in her personal space and it took all of her willpower not to retreat.

"You always ask me that," She told him quietly. She refused to play his game anymore.

_Click._

Another step closer, and he was close, so close. She could see the dark sweep of his eyelashes contrasting sharply with his deathly white skin, and she could see that the tear streaks on his cheeks weren't actually black like she thought they were, but a dark teal - like Grimmjow's eyes marks, but darker.

His peculiar eyes were boring holes into her head, and he was so close that when he spoke she could almost feel it reverberating through her and she was nervous, inexplicably nervous. He was so close she could smell him, and he smelt like male and crisp cold and his voice was almost like a caress, a caress from a hand that had been buried in snow.

"Do you blame me?" He asked, and the unfamiliar words grabbed her heart and squeezed. She looked at him sadly, because she did blame him, but for reasons that she didn't understand she didn't want him to know it.

His breath was ghosting over her, cool tendrils teasing goosebumps from her flesh, chilling her in a way that couldn't just be put down to mere temperature.

She shivered, despite herself.

"Woman?" He murmured, and his voice bore down on her, so calm, so collected.

_He was so close._

"...Inoue," She whispered, the lump in her throat making it difficult to speak. She cleared it, and said it again, louder.

"Inoue."

One corner of his mouth pulled down in displeasure. "What?"

"Inoue Orihime," Her voice was firm, "My name is Inoue Orihime. Not woman."

_So very close._

"I don't speak the name of trash," He said, finally.

Whatever strange thing had been building up in that encounter had abruptly been destroyed, but whether it was by Orihime's words, or by Ulquiorra's, neither of them knew.

He turned on his heel and walked out of the room.

She watched him go, puzzled and even just the littlest bit hurt, and wondered what is was that she had done wrong.


	4. Chapter 4

Apologies about the long wait. Updates should be a little more frequent now.

Thankyou to everybody that has reviewed! The positive comments she has recieved have made her blush! So thankyou everyone. She has taken everybody's comments into account, and she hopes that she has delivered on a little more cannon Orihime. If you spot anything that you feel could be improved, please let her know!

Chapter four.

Inoue Orihime had always been a curious girl.

Over the course of the years, she had been plagued with many questions. These questions only grew in number as she begun high school, and even more so when she had made that rather puzzling transition through the dubious wonder known as puberty.

They were questions such as; "_Why am I here? What do I want to do with my life?_ and; Why can I never find a bra in my size? to name a few.

Not all of these questions were answered. Mostly because she tended to forget them mere minutes after they had crossed her mind in favour of something else, such as lunchtime. But the few that did remain stubbornly tacked to her inner conscious, like a haphazard poster on the wall, were usually mulled over, however briefly, before they were relayed to the vastness of all-knowing that was Tatsuki.

Questions such as; _Why does nobody ever share my lunch with me?_ and _Does this make me look fat?_ and that incredibly confusing one time: _What's 'Pegging'?_ which had resulted in Keigo coming to school the following day with a black eye, were put to the Martial-Artist-come-Well-Of-Wisdom that was her best friend.

And Orihime had been content with that.

However, in Hueco Mundo, it was different. Tatsuki wasn't there with her. And so any question that Orihime did have, no matter the substance, did not have someone from which to procure an answer.

And she _did_ have a question.

This question, which had clung to the proverbial corkboard that was her rational thought process with an adamance that was vaguely impressive, merely hung about like a neglected clothesline. Not going anywhere.

A productive outcome wasn't exactly promising, either. Where on Earth would she find an answer, when she had no Tatsuki?

Who on Earth...or, well, Not-Quite-On-Earth could she ask: _What do all of the Arrancar **do** in Las Noches?_

And then she got a bright idea.

* * *

"Isn't there anything?" She asked plaintively.

The Fourth Espada didn't bother responding, so she sighed expansively and flopped dramatically backwards onto the covers of the bed.

He was distinctly unimpressed with her theatrics.

It showed. He was giving her _that face_ again. _That face_ wasn't to be mistaken for his normal face, his _face_, or his other face, even if it usually was (they all looked pretty much the same).

_That face_ usually meant that she was beginning to get on his nerves, and if she didn't stop doing whatever she was doing, he would say something rude.

Something was definitely more detrimental than her delicate sensibilities, however.

"What about a boardgame?" She wheedled, "A cartoon? ...Coloured pencils?"

He lost his temper.

"There is nothing, woman," He said flatly. "Stop whining."

Well, as much as Ulquiorra would lose his temper, anyway.

So much for Well of Wisdom.

* * *

Orihime was so bored that smacking her head repeatedly against the wall was almost beginning to seem like a swell idea.

Almost.

However, she wasn't bored enough to yet seriously consider rampant masochism as a grand pasttime, so she merely wondered what she could possibly do by herself in a room that seemed to lack even the idea of basic entertainment.

She looked hopefully at the bedspread, but it had nothing to suggest.

The ugly chair, and the equally ugly table had nothing to add either. These were relatively new, having only been brought in after she politely mentioned her lack of eating space.

She had been more than a little surprised when they had arrived. Who knew that Ulquiorra actually listened?

Idly, she wondered if they would let her have a bath earlier today. A good, long hot soak would do a lot to keep her mind off of things.

Such as the fact that she had been staring at the ceiling for goodness-knew-how-long.

Didn't Aizen _know_ that boredom was fatal? It was: Keigo told her so. Asano Keigo was so full of knowledge, she thought generously.

No, really, he was.

* * *

"Why don't you sit and eat with me?" She asked, more out of curiosity than any real desire for the actual event. "Or do all of the Espada eat together in a big hall, like on those television shows?"

That would be pretty cool. She hoped that he did, so then she could ask him to take her one day.

"It is unnecessary for us to eat." Ulquiorra said, coldly.

Oh.

Obviously eating was another one of those trashy human things that he spoke about, she thought. He didn't know what he was missing out on.

She wondered why Espada didn't need to eat, when Hollow ate. Even if it was people's souls. And as if Ulquiorra were reading her mind, he spoke again.

"Due to King Aizen's ingenuity, unless we have to exert ourselves, we can recycle our own reiatsu."

She was both vaguely excited and disgusted at the prospect, and waited expectantly for more information, but he obviously didn't see the need to elaborate.

A little disappointed, she returned to her unidentifiable, yet nice-enough meal.

"What's this I'm eating?" She asked, poking at it with a fork, because she didn't want the silence again.

He didn't say anything, so she asked again, just in case he hadn't heard her.

"It's unimportant," He said flatly.

Orihime was understandably horrified.

"On the contrary!" She declared emphatically, "A meal is _very_ important, especially for a growing girl! Why, I went to school every day just for lunch you know!"

And to demonstrate her point, she took an extra large bite of whatever she was eating and nodded.

Ulquiorra seemed slightly appalled.

He turned on his heel. "I shall return when you cease speaking nonsense," He said over his shoulder as he stalked out, Orihime looking puzzledly after him.

Maybe he was jealous?

* * *

The next night, he stayed determinedly silent, despite her many attempts at conversation.

Eventually, she gave up, and finished her greens.

He stayed for a while, his hands buried deep in his pockets, while she sat with her heels upon the seat and her forearms wrapped tightly about her knees, staring at her empty plate.

Finally, she broke the silence.

"I'm bored," She told him, because she was.

It wasn't as if she had anything else to say.

* * *

Her toes wriggled happily in the hot water, almost of their own accord. Bathtime was probably her second favourite time of the day. Dinnertime being the first.

Bathtime was followed closely by breakfast, which was very marginally in front of lunch. She preferred breakfast over lunch only because it was first. She supposed if lunch was first, she'd like it better.

But she wasn't quite sure.

The water she was relaxing in was probably the only warm variable in this place, so she took full advantage of it when she was able.

Reclining back into the almost boiling tub, a breath of satisfaction gushed heavily from between her lips.

Oh yes, this was wonderful.

Glancing over at the door, where two Arrancar stood almost out of sight; the only testament to their presence being the odd piece of white clothing jutting from behind the doorframe, Orihime sighed again. This one not quite so satisfied.

They never let her stay for long.

Staring at the bonewhite ceiling, Orihime wondered if her friends were happy in Soul Society, and supposed she already knew the answer to that.

She wondered if the empty hole inside of her, that everpresent emptiness that seemed so heavy, weighed them down as much as it did her. Or if they even felt it at all.

Orihime hoped that they missed her as much as she missed them.

* * *

The atmosphere in the room during Ulquiorra's visits tended to alternate, she had noticed.

Sometimes it was, although not comfortable, somewhat tolerable, and it usually ended in Orihime talking Ulquiorra's ear off, while he said as little as possible.

But other times, for reasons unknown he would refuse such niceties, and anything she said was met with cold, harsh words, and the interaction between them would be minimal and awkward.

This was one of those times.

However, what was puzzling was that it hadn't started that way.

The Fourth Espada had come earlier than usual. He had been standing in the room for a while, and it seemed as if he probably wasn't going to leave anytime soon.

She didn't mind.

In a place like this, any company is good company.

She was chatting to him about nothing in particular, merely trying to fill the silence while she was waiting for her food. He in turn stood quietly, his hands shoved inelegantly in his pockets.

It was a little nice, because he wasn't saying horrible things. Well, he wasn't saying anything at all, but that was alright.

He was a very good listener, she thought happily, and told him so.

He, of course, completely ignored her.

"Grimmjow is exactly the same," She had said thoughtfully. "Even if he pretends that he isn't. Just like you."

She hadn't really expected him to reply, so his reaction to such an innocuous comment astonished her.

"Do not compare me to that piece of trash," he had said, harshly, and she had stared at him.

"But you're alike," she insisted. "Well, you don't really act alike, except you kind of have the same --"

"Nothing," He had interrupted, "I am nothing like that trash."

"He isn't trash!" She said hotly, feeling the need to defend the honour of the absent Grimmjow.

And Ulquiorra had said nothing after that, merely staring right through her in his baleful manner and completely ignoring her every attempt to break the silence.

And that was the last straw. Inoue Orihime lost her temper.

Her hands were clenched into tiny little fists as she stood to face him, her grey eyes blazing as if stone itself had caught alight.

"You have a horrible attitude!" She told him, emphatically. "You think yourself above everybody, except your precious Aizen! You aren't any different from the so called 'trash' you scorn!"

And she ran towards him, her hand outstretched. Her heart beat a furious stacatto against her ribcage, and her palm flew towards its target. She meant to hit him, to slap some sense to him, to perhaps even force him to partake into some of the anguish that she herself had endured for the past day, week, month, century.

Her wrist was caught in a vice so cold she yelped, and then she stopped dead.

Lips pressed against hers, cool, unexpectedly gentle lips, and her heart froze over.

Shocked, Orihime stared, and saw straight into the green of the deepest ocean of a summer day, into the green of the most flawless emerald. And it was looking straight back at her.

There was no pressure behind his lips, but still she couldn't move. All she could do was look into that _green._ The colour of deadly acid.A web of cracks carved their way through it, a dancing pattern of blatant flaws.

They were so odd, so blank, somehow lacking, and she couldn't bear to see them anymore. She shut her eyes against them, and then all that remained was the darkness, the _cold_ and the _smell_ of him and his lips touching her lips, and then they were gone.

She opened her eyes, but her gaze met his retreating back, for he was already half way across the room. She let out a breath she didn't even know that she had held.

He left without a word, and then she understood.

She was right, after all. There was something more there than he let on. He just didn't want her to know it, but she had suspected, and now she was sure.

He was as lonely as she was, as lonely as Grimmjow was, and she wondered if all of the Espada were lonely too, and if all of them were as wary of each other as Grimmjow and Ulquiorra seemed to be, because that would be awful, living in such a state of constant fear and anger and isolation.

She hoped that Aizen felt guilty for creating such miserable creatures.


	5. Chapter 5

Thankyou all for your kind reviews. She is very grateful of the very positive response she is getting from the people reading this.

**Chapter Five.**

The day seemed to drag its feet.

All she could think of was the way that his lips had met hers, and she was confused, because by all rights she should have been furious and disgusted.

The monster that had killed the man who was everything to her had kissed her - her first kiss. She wasn't even angry about it.

Puzzled, yes, incredibly shocked, yes, but not horrified or enraged, or even just a tad put out. The fact that she couldn't muster up the hundreds of negative feelings she felt she was entitled to did annoy her, so she held on to that irritation stubbornly, nurturing it into a mild self-righteous indignation, because it was better than nothing.

Perhaps it was because he was no longer such an enigma to her, because she had tangible proof that he was more human than he wished others to know. He had always reminded her of an iceberg in the centre of an ocean - cold, unforgiving and unapproachable, until last night. He had with one action turned everything she thought she knew of him on its head, and her with it.

And, enlightened as she was, she found that she couldn't dislike him.

After all he had done to her, to everyone, he had redeemed himself in one little action. In that small action she knew that he felt loneliness, which meant that he wasn't heartless. Even if she wanted to, she could never bring herself to loathe him. Not now.

She honestly didn't know how she was going to face him that evening. Even thinking of it made her nervous and awkward. She would be hopeless when he actually got there. What should she say? What should she _do_? Should she pretend that it didn't happen? Should she confront him about it? Or should she just pretend she was angry at him and accuse him of kiss raping her, the pervert.

The last one would save her dignity, but it would be a lie. It wasn't as if she said no, was it? Hell, she couldn't even manage a freak out session the next day (which was as frustrating as it was puzzling). Pretending it didn't happen would definitely be easier, but acting as if something that monumental didn't happen would drive her crazy.

She would have to confront him. She groaned aloud. That was probably going to be the most embarrassing thing she will ever have to do. She couldn't imagine him making it easier for her.

And then a troubling thought occurred to her.

What if he tried to do it again? What would happen if he wanted more than just a kiss this time? It wasn't as if she could exactly stop him if he really wanted to...not that that was something she could see him doing.

Something one of the other Espada might do, but not Ulquiorra.

It was settled, she would ask him why he did what he did. She couldn't do anything else. She could never bring herself to let it go, and even though she had no idea what she would actually say, she would say it anyway.

She just had to wait until evening.

It seemed so very far away.

So caught up in her own thoughts of almost cold lips and green eyes, Inoue came quite close to leaving a girl-sized indent on the roof when the door hissed open.

Landing on shaky feet, she turned to face the door, feeling very much as if she were facing the death penalty armed with nothing but a sponge and a bucket of soapy water. She was however, clothed in a fragile shield of self righteous indignation and the resolve to put this rather odd event to rights.

The two Arrancar (one of them male, which was surprising) did what they always did, wheeling the metal trolley into the room, and placing the silver platter on the small hideous table in the centre. All the while paying as much attention to her as they would a fly on the wall: which was throwing her the occasional dirty look but otherwise ignoring her.

Spectacularly rising above their petty behaviour, she looked to the door expectantly, clenching her hands into fists as if she could physically grasp her tenuous resolve and strengthen it.

She waited for him to come in.

And waited.

And then waited a little more.

The pair who had brought in the food tray had left a while ago, but she barely noticed. Whatever was hiding beneath the silver cover was doing its best to tempt her to eat it by throwing out tantalising smells, and she eventually allowed herself to be seduced.

Pulling the chair around the table, to where she had the best view of the door, she slumped into it, and picking up her chopsticks, Inoue picked at the food in front of her, her eyes trained on the door.

Why was he late? He had never been late before.

At first she was puzzled, and then a little worried, but then she relaxed a little: Aizen might have had some order for him to follow.

...But why would he ask Ulquiorra to do it when he had to watch her?

He must just be running behind, she rationalised. He wouldn't not come - after all, Aizen told him to. He wouldn't dare disobey an order.

Content with that explanation, she attacked her noodle dish with a little more enthusiasm. It would have been much nicer if it had sweetbean paste in it, she thought. She always put sweetbean paste in hers.

And pickles, and sultanas and those funny white stalks you get from the market for three hundred yen.

Once she even put chocolate buttons in it. She wished _this_ stirfry had chocolate buttons in it. Where was Ulquiorra?

He wouldn't be this late, would he?

...He wasn't avoiding her, was he? No, he wouldn't. He probably didn't even realise that kissing girls was bad anyway. Well, not that it was bad. Well, it wasn't, unless the girl didn't want it - but Orihime hadn't exactly said no, had she? Wait, did that mean that she wanted it?

But...she would know if she wanted it, wouldn't she? _Yes, she would_! She told herself firmly and she knew that she most certainly did _not_ want it now, especially from a Hollow.

Did she?

No, wait, no she didn't!

A little panicky, she hurriedly devoured all of her food and gulped down the glass of water placed by it, managing to get at least half of it in her lungs and nearly drown herself.

During the gasping and spluttering that ensued, her tray was taken away and the Fourth Espada still hadn't made an appearance.

Once she had finally stopped dying and settled down, she made her way to the adjacent couch and sat (she was sick of the bed, if truth be told), propping her elbows up on the arm.

At first she was nervous, but that slowly made way for boredom, and then mild concern, which eventually turned into annoyance.

Where _was_ he?

She peeled herself off of the couch and paced in front of it. Then she sat down again.

After many hours had past and a few holes had been worn in the stone floor, it slowly became obvious to Orihime that he probably wasn't coming.

She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of crying, so she fumed instead.

After all of that time she had spent waiting for him, he didn't even have the courtesy to show up! She had even been worried at one point!

She cursed herself for a fool and her pacing became a frantic whirlwind all about the room.

So he can kiss her, and then not bother showing up the next day - as if she was some type of cheap _floosy_!

In her frustration she kicked the leg of her unoffending bed. Unfortunately it hurt her more so than the inanimate object she abused, and after the customary single footed dance that always follows a severely stubbed toe, her frantic whirlwind slowed to a mere angry limp.

She had forgotten that she was wearing sandals.

Telling herself she had calmed down enough to sit back on the mattress (it wasn't because her toe hurt something awful), she did so, and irritably chewed a thumbnail.

Forcing herself not to glance at the door (he wasn't coming!) she kept her eyes resolutely on her knees, and then flopped on her back angrily. He wasn't coming.

She should probably sleep. She would be tired tomorrow if she didn't, and everything always seemed ten times worse when she was tired. She crawled under the covers, looking at the door (just in case) and found it bereft of a thin man in white.

She scowled at it as if it were entirely its fault, but it didn't have any effect. Figures.

She stared at the ceiling, wondering why everything was still so bright - and realised that the light was still on. She eyed the switch on the other side of the room, and then rolled over and buried her face in the covers.

She told herself she was leaving it on because she couldn't be bothered walking all the way over to the other side of the room. Not for the bone white man that wasn't coming.

It didn't stop her from waking at every little noise with her heart in her throat.

* * *

He didn't come with her meal the next day either.

She contented herself with jabbing as many pieces of food as she could with her chopsticks and pretending that they were his face. Serves him right.

* * *

The third day, he still hadn't come and she was a little disappointed.

* * *

By the fourth day, she was getting worried. Perhaps he was hurt?

* * *

The fifth, six and seventh day passed with stubborn slowness. That feeling of loneliness that had slowly begun to dissipate returned in full force plus relief troops.

On the eighth day, she was so bored that she attempted to start up a conversation with one of the Arrancar girl's that was wheeling in her trolley. She was a pretty thing, with pert little yellow curls and the hollow mask that covered her lower face made her look somewhat like a gypsy, albeit an angry one with big teeth.

The look that the Gypsy-Hollow gave her could have melted stone. Much wiser, Orihime kept to herself from then on.

Unfortunately, keeping to herself meant courting boredom and more than a little loneliness. There was nothing at all to keep her mind occupied - her room was sparse, and nobody in Hueco Mundo had ever heard of a board game as well as things like manners and fun food.

By the ninth day, the redheaded girl discovered that the moon was excellent for making shadow puppets, so she kept herself entertained by making rabbits and monsters and puppies and people until her hands cramped. Apparently eternal night _was_ good for something.

The twelfth day came and went, and Orihime had made shadow puppets to resemble each and every one of her friends, plus as many of the Shinigami Captains she could remember, and put on plays, usually musicals.

With robots.

* * *

By the fifteenth day, Orihime was going mad. She was frightfully bored, miserably lonely and so sick of shadow puppets that if she ever saw one again she couldn't be held responsible for her own actions. She never realised just how much she relied on others until she had been removed from them for such a lengthy period of time. Sure, she used to get lonely, especially after the loss of her brother, but she saw now that that wasn't loneliness at all, that it was nothing compared to what she was enduring now.

Meal times, which she used to look forward to, became something to dread, because having living, breathing beings right there and being unable to talk or interact with them in any way was somehow worse than having nothing at all.

She was drowning in her own isolation and she didn't know how much more she could take before she lost it, before she would start talking to herself, or seeing things that weren't there, or whatever crazy people did.

When the door opened and an angry figure stormed in, her first thought was, _Oh great, I spoke too soon_.

When the said figure grabbed the front of her clothes and wrenched her upwards and shoved its angular face in hers however, she began to have doubts as to whether this really was an hallucination, because if it was, it was a very good one.

Then the Possible Hallucination pulled her out of her bed and dumped her on the floor, and she became certain that this was not a figment of her imagination, because that darn well hurt! With this deduced, that meant that Grimmjow Jaggerjack, the Sixth Espada, was indeed standing over her with his fists clenched and his face like thunder.

She eeped.

"What the hell was between you and Ichigo?" He demanded, his voice harsh with a million things that she couldn't quite grasp. The words hit her like icy water, as if she had been thrown in the waters of the Antarctic unexpectedly and she hadn't had time to get a breath.

_Ichigo?_

_Kurosaki Ichigo?_

Her state of mind, already unsettled from a long period of near total isolation, tipped dangerously. A rush of emotion, like blood, overcame her at the sounds of another, of _Grimmjow_ speaking the name of the man that had haunted her dreams. _The blood was everywhere, there were rivers, and she was drowning in it. The iron taste was invading her nostrils, her throat, her stomach, and she retched._

_Kurosaki._

_KurosakiKurosaki**KurosakiKuro-**_

Grimmjow kicked her brutally in the stomach.

Gasping, she curled up into a ball. The sheer shock of the physical pain restoring the tenuous balance of her consciousness.

Goodness he had a kick on him.

She laid there on the floor, with the wind knocked out of her, her mind running a million miles a minute about nothing at all. He nudged her again with his shoe.

With great difficulty she righted herself, looking up at him with unfocused, hazy eyes. The hand clapped over her mouth ensured that she stopped dry heaving. She was breathing rather heavily through her nose, trying to stay the throes of nausea washing over her.

However, she wasn't allowed much recovery time.

He advanced towards her and she scooted back as quickly as she could, dignity overcome by the overwhelming knowledge that she really didn't want to be kicked again.

He said something, but she was rather distracted trying to avoid his feet, lest they decided that they wanted to be intimate with another body part.

And then the question that he had actually asked penetrated her currently bewildered conscious.

_...Wait, what?_

"...Pardon?" She asked, quite sure that her brain was still a bit overstimulated from inventing all of those shadow puppets, because that question made so little sense that it had to have been made up.

"I said, you little bitch, _what was between you and Ichigo_?" His face was a picture of wrath as he descended upon her and she attempted to slide back out of reach.

Nope, it wasn't made up.

Being a lot taller, stronger and overall far more upright than she, he caught her easily. He reached out and grabbed her hair, yanking her up to eye level. Agony lanced through her scalp, and she cried out, desperately grabbing his wrist, trying to lessen the weight pulling on the hunk of hair he had clenched in his hand.

"Please," She begged.

"I asked you a question!" He snarled, spittle splattering on her skin and his rancid breath in her face. He was angry at her and she didn't know why.

"I don't understand what you mean!" She cried back, and he slapped her viciously.

His grip on her red locks was the only thing that prevented her head from snapping around, and she bit her lip to hold back a cry. Tears stung her eyes and her right cheek burned as if it were aflame.

"Were. You. Screwing. Ichigo. You. Little _slut_?" Each word was enunciated as if it were painful to say, his face was twisted up as if he had eaten something vile,and when the words finally sank in it was as if he had slapped her again. She stared at him, too shocked to do anything else.

He shook her, and she whimpered. It felt as if her hair was being torn out, and she tightened her grip on his wrist.

"Were you?"

"Why are you asking me this?" She wailed, and her heart was breaking a little bit because she didn't know why this was happening and she wanted it to stop.

"I saw the way your face was when you talked about him. I saw the way you looked at each other. I _saw_ it and I know so just spit it out already! Were you two fucking? Mashing bits? Rocking the casbah? Doing it? Gett --"

"NO!" She screamed, and he fell silent. Her breath was coming in short desperate gasps, "Kurosaki and I...weren't together. We didn't do any of those...things."

Shame flooded her at the idea that he thought that she would.

Abruptly, he let go of her hair. Her grip on his wrists too lax to hold her body weight, Inoue dropped to her knees, wincing as they slammed into the hard stone. Her head was pounding and her scalp throbbed.

She looked up at him through eyes swimming with tears, and he stared down at her, eyes bright and incredibly hard. His teeth were bared, his grimace as fearsome as the animal jaw fixed to his face.

He looked more like a panther now than his released form ever did.

He made a sound, a sound of disgust and hate and misery and hopelessness that wasn't directed at her and it tore at her heartstrings because she had once felt the same way, then he turned to leave her there half prone on the floor.

_No!_ Her mind cried.

He couldn't quite leave, and he turned back to see why: Inoue had grabbed the hem of his flowing white pants. He looked as surprised as she felt, but she realised that her subconscious knew better than her, because now that he was still there, it seemed right.

"Don't go," She murmured, "...Please."

And miraculously, he didn't. He merely stood there, staring at her as if she had grown another head, because what kind of girl allows someone to hurt her, and then begs them not to go?

But the redhead clutching his clothes so desperately was that kind of girl, he already knew that. His mind flitted to the two pitiful Arrancar that had beat her until she could barely stand, and still she had saved them, because that was the kind of person that Orihime was, the kind that saved other's, even from themselves.

He thought it was pathetic, disgusting; foriegn to the Hollow who was accustomed to violence and greed. But, almost against his will, his feet remained where they were.

And she was lonely, so so lonely, and Grimmjow was the first being that had spoken to her for so long. She was so grateful towards him, and even if his words were cruel ones he still had thought she was important enough to speak to. It showed her that he was miserable too, so she held the fabric tighter, then she yanked on it, and he made a noise of surprise.

Her other hand reached up to grab his wrist, and then he allowed himself to be pulled to his own knees, it just seemed so unlike him to allow such treatment. She was awed that he tolerated from her things that he probably didn't from anybody else, and she swore to him in her own mind that she would do nothing to betray what he had given her.

Inoue looked into his sharp blue eyes. He looked back into her mild grey ones, and it was as if he could no longer hold everything in. His eyes were so naked, and in their nakedness he was exposed. His futile rage, his hopelessness, and over it all a despondent miserable agony that was like a solid punch to her, because how can one being hold so much hate and sadness and not explode with it all?

He reached his rough hand up and touched her hair, as uncaring of the callouses that snagged the strands as she was, because there was a peculiar sense of wonder in his face.

She thought she knew why: But for a shade or two, the colour was the same as Kurosaki's.

Grimmjow said nothing, but his eyes were glued to her hair; looking at it as if for the first time, and then she couldn't hold back anymore. Her pale arms slid around his neck; a curse tore from his lips as she wrapped herself around him and he tried to push her away, but she clung tighter and unthinkingly she curled her fingers in his hair, regardless of the knots that snarled around the digits, and pushed his brow to her neck.

He froze.

She rubbed her free hand soothingly along his back, tracing the curve of a spine that was rigid with resistance and anger.

The jawbone was sharp and distinctly uncomfortable, digging into her soft flesh even through her collar, but she couldn't care less.

Eventually, the stiff shoulders and the clenched fists relaxed, if in increments, worn down by her patience and her unfamiliar kindness. Softly, she began to cry.

The tears were trickling down her face, slowly at first, but then running thicker and heavier as she cried, because he was just so sad. He wouldn't cry for himself, so perhaps she could cry for him.

And so she sobbed quietly, and the evidence of their sadness dripped down her cheeks, down her neck, some of it pattering into his skyblue locks. He knelt before her, and she before him: she held him and shed the tears that he refused to. Or perhaps couldn't.

Slowly, she felt large hands slide over her back, cool even through the white jacket, and snake their way around her. At first they were hesitant, as if unsure of what to do, and Inoue wondered if the Sixth Espada had ever been embraced before. Then they lost all sense of decorum and crushed her to the hard masculine body that she held.

He pushed his face into the junction of her shoulder and her neck as if he could bury himself inside of her, and his grip was so tight that she could hardly breathe. His hollow mask was boring into her skin, his nails almost impossibly sharp as they clawed her shoulder.

But none of it mattered, because the only thing that mattered to her at that very moment was him.

She didn't know how long they were there, leaning into each other on the cold hard stone, but it seemed too soon when he eventually pushed her away roughly and stood.

She remained kneeling, because her knees were aching; her calves and feet were so numb that she physically couldn't feel them and she knew if she tried to stand now she would fall over and probably hurt herself. She didn't want to do that.

The Sixth Espada's face was drawn in annoyance, and something else she couldn't quite identify, but she smiled tremulously at him anyway.

"Don't --" He began.

"I wouldn't," She interrupted, keen to reassure him, and he nodded stiffly.

She had expected him to pretty much tear right out of there, so when he stayed, that peculiar look in his eyes, she was mildly surprised.

He watched her for a while, and she shifted uncomfortably.

"I don't get humans," He said gruffly. And with that, he stalked out.

And she couldn't help the smile that twinged the corner of her lips...his swagger was back.

She watched him as he left, and idly wondered how the hell he could walk when she wasn't even sure she existed from the knees down anymore.

So unfair.

She was sore, and aching, both from the cold and the uncomfortable position she was in for so long, but still, she was smiling when she half walked, half crawled towards her bed, and climbed up on it.


	6. Chapter 6

Here, a gift for you. She wasn't planning to upload it until she'd finished chapter seven, but it's close enough anyway, so enjoy it.

A little bit of trouble with this chapter. Actually, more than a little. You can blame this chapter for the entirely different direction from the original this fiction is taking. Worries about Aizen's behaviour as well. If you can spot something you think ought to be improved, please let her know.

Thankyou for the kind reviews, she reads each and every one and they make her smile.

* * *

**Chapter Six.**

"King Aizen wishes to see you," The young female Arrancar who stood in her room seemed horrified of the fact.

Orihime suppressed a groan.

It was before breakfast, and she was _starving_.

...She supposed she should have expected Aizen to want to see her sooner or later; and she was probably luckier for it to have been later, rather than sooner.

Unfortunately the former Captain was the last person that she wanted to confront on an empty stomach, but she couldn't very well keep him waiting - it would be rude.

She had been having the most profound cravings for egg rolls lately though, and she was holding out hope that this day was the day.

Egg rolls with sweetbean paste. That was definitely what she wanted.

Her mouth watered at the thought.

Aw, why couldn't he have waited until _after_ breakfast?

"You are to follow me immediately," The redhead said, her face twisting just a little further until she resembled a bleached prune. Orihime wondered if perhaps the girl would let her wait until her food had come, but one look at her face suggested otherwise.

Jerking her head once in an imitation of a nod that looked more like a tourettes spasm, she obediently began to follow, rather mournfully, the girl with the hair the same shade as Abarai's and freckles.

When she began to fall behind her escort, she at first thought that she was just a little sluggish from having just woken up (her raging stomach might have had something to do with it as well). Unthinkingly, she lengthened her steps...but still couldn't seem to catch up.

In fact, the gap had increased from a mere few steps to a good few feet.

Experimentally, Orihime quickened her steps.

And somehow the distance lengthened.

That couldn't be accidental!

Well!

_She thinks if she walks quickly enough I won't be able to follow her_, Orihime thought rather huffily. _Well, I'll show her!_

And she zoomed up to the Arrancar with a speed that was almost inhuman, and, hearing the small stampede closing in, the girl gave her a disgruntled look over her shoulder.

Orihime briefly saw one eye widen in surprise, and she grinned in triumph.

...Then the girl sped up. A lot. In the blink of an eye, she was down the very end of the hall.

That was so unfair!

Determined not to be outdone, Orihime tore down the long white corridor as fast as she could. It was enough to catch a glimpse of her so called escort turning right.

She darted after her, gasping with the effort to keep her in sight. After numerous twists and turns, all of which Orihime only just managed to catch the other take, she turned into a hall and ran full pelt into something very solid.

And fell on her behind.

"Ooh, ouchie ouchie ouchie!" She whimpered, clutching her forehead and trying to rub her bottom at the same time.

That sure smarted.

"Oohhh, are ya' hurt li'l one?" A slightly familiar voice cooed.

She stiffened, and peeked through her fingers. An incredibly tall gentleman with pale hair was looking down at her, attempting to look soliticious and failing spectacularly. It probably would have been more successful if he had stopped smiling while he was doing it.

In fact, he was smiling so broadly that his eyes were all scrunched up.

She scrambled to her feet, still rubbing the offending parts vigorously.

She knew him. He was the first Captain that she had ever seen. The one who had prevented Jidanbou from letting them through the gate.

He leant foward, and his grin widened even more, which amazed her a little, because she didn't think that could be possible. It looked as if his face would split, and she gulped a bit.

"If ya wanted ta know," He whispered behind his slender hand rather conspiratorially, "She went that-a way." He crooked a finger towards a doorway to their right.

She blinked. He was helping her?

"Thankyou!" She blurted out, because her brother always told her to be polite to people that helped her and then, injuries forgotten, bolted down the way he had directed her.

She saw him waving out of the corner of her eye as she ran pell-mell, and waved back.

No point being rude, after all.

* * *

The Arrancar girl's smug expression faltered a little when she caught up with her, but Orihime didn't let herself feel superiour about it...very much anyway.

"King Aizen is through here," She said stiffly, obviously put out that a human found her with very little effort (Orihime didn't feel the need to inform her that she had help), and Orihime nodded in what she thought was a regal sort of manner, pushed open the door and went inside.

* * *

This room was different to the one he had originally brought her into, and it was different from the room that he kept the Hougyoku in.

This one looked kind of like a huge English dining room that somebody had attacked with buckets of white paint. The huge chairs were made of the teeth of herbivorous dinosaurs, towering and blocky. The white table they hunched over was made of a glossy stone that she didn't recognise. Everything else was made the same way her quarters were.

Aizen had no imagination when it came to decor.

He sat at the end closest to where she stood, his chair half turned towards the door, and the smile he levelled on her was genuinely warm. She never could understand how a man who did all of the monstrous things that he had could look the way that he did.

He looked like he should be someone's father, or a teacher. He made her sad, and he angered her for lying to all of those people, and making everyone think badly of her and manipulating her with the lives of her friends - lives that he took anyway, because it suited him.

"I trust you are well, Inoue," He said genially, and gestured to the seat closest to his. "Please sit down."

She stiffly moved and slid into the chair that he had indicated.

"Tea?" He swept his hand lazily towards the table, upon which two cups and a small pot resided. Well, she was thirsty...

"That would be lovely," She said honestly, and he poured it for her, as a good host should, and she wished that he hadn't, because she didn't want him to act so normal! It would be easy for her if he was...slavering at the mouth, or was made of metal...something like that.

"Considering all that has occurred," He began, and her reveries of giant robots shooting foam out of their mouths were shattered, "I thought I would give you some time to recover, and to come to terms with the fact that Hueco Mundo is your home now."

She pursed her lips.

It wasn't her home! Home was full of friends and school, of bright colours and rugs that don't match the couch, cheap trinkets, chocolate and her brother's shrine. This would never be her home.

"I know that this is difficult for you," He continued in that same rich gentle voice. "Alas, we have a schedule to keep which prevents us from giving you more time.

I need you to fulfill your own part in the awakening of the Hougyoku, and healing of our wounded. I know I have already explained that to you."

He looked at her, and she realised that he was waiting for some kind of response, so she nodded jerkily and stuttered out an affirmative.

"I know how unhappy you are being cooped up in that room by yourself," His voice was a murmur, and he brushed a small lock of hair out of her eyes, "But you don't have to be there anymore."

It took so much of her self control not to shy away from such an intimate action that she almost didn't hear what he had spoken...and then it hit her with the subtlety of a falling house.

She didn't have to be stuck in that room anymore?

"Hueco Mundo is your home now," He said again, and she wished that he would stop saying that, "So, I don't see the necessity for you to continue being so isolated from the rest of our world."

Suddenly everything else he had said didn't matter.

Inoue was quivering in her excitement. She could finally see more than four walls! She would be able to walk around of her own free will, and perhaps glimpse that blue sky (it didn't matter that it wasn't real) again! Her heart swelled with the thought.

Aizen raised one slender finger, as if in warning. "But,"

And she wilted a little.

"But, I need to be certain of your loyalty before I can allow you to wander about unaccompanied."

Loyalty?

"You're a very beautiful woman, Inoue," He told her. "You are also a very unique one. Your powers are very useful to me, I will admit that, and you are incredibly lovely to look upon.

If you agree to my condition, You will be allowed free reign among the fortress, and be able to associate with the others. I have been told that you and Grimmjow seem to have developed somewhat of a friendship," She tensed, and he smiled, "Yes, I know. You could be a part of something enormous, something amazing, if you so desire."

"To what?" She was puzzled. He seemed to be saying a lot, and yet nothing at all and she wished that he would just say what he meant, because she wasn't particularly skilled in word play.

"I have been kind to you," And he actually had, "All I ask in return is your heart."

Her heart? What was he talking about?

"What are you asking of me?" She asked him, nervous.

He tilted his head to the side, softly, as if he were considering his answer.

"Healing someone, regardless of who the person is, or what they are capable of is in your nature," He paused, and caught her gaze. "However, taking up arms against another, fighting is something altogether different. You only fight if you need to protect somebody you love, or if you wholeheartedly believe in your cause.

To ask your utter devotion to me as of this moment, I know, is ridiculous. All I want from you is, shall we say, an openmindedness. Come into our world with an open heart, devote yourself to us and to our cause, and let us welcome you."

_...Welcome her?_

To even make friends? To talk to people other than harsh-mouthed Grimmjow and cold Ulquiorra?

But would they speak to her? Would they accept her?

She opened her mouth to ask him, but he spoke again, and his words destroyed those tiny tendrils of interest, and above all, self doubt that were slowly creeping into her resolve and eating away at it from the inside out.

"Your strength of mind appeals to me, Orihime," He continued, "Your potential far outstrips what you are doing with it now. You could be an amazing fighter, with your powers. You have equal strength in defending, as well as offending.

You will make friends here, in Hueco Mundo. And they can assist you - I can assist you, in developing the powers you will need to protect them."

She blinked. Defend them?

Against the Shinigami?

Shinigami...

_...Kurosaki._

"...It is a very fair offer," He was saying, and she forced herself to pay attention, to concentrate on his words, anything to push those horrible images out of her head.

"I think I know what you are saying," She told him, and he smiled that wondrous, benevolent smile.

"I'm glad that you do,"

"And I think you know that I could never accept."

He raised an eyebrow, and looked at her in mild amusement.

And suddenly, in her mind's eye, and as clear as the day she had not seen in far too long, she saw them all. The people that had been affected by all of the horrid things that Aizen Sousuke had done, those awful, vile things that he had hidden behind his beauteous, patriarchal veneer.

Captain Hitsugaya and his young friend, and Matsumoto, the red headed vice captain who had done so much for Inoue, and all of Soul Society. Ishida and Chad and Grimmjow and even Ulquiorra and _Kurosaki_!

Kurosaki, who was dead! Because of him! Because of Aizen!

All the people that he had wronged, and her heart burned with fire. Fire that cascaded from her lips, thick and molten and scalding.

"You have taken everything from me that I have held dear. You killed my friends, you made everybody believe that I had betrayed them, and then you trapped me in that little room as if I was a naughty child! I won't betray the people I love by doing what you want! You cannot persuade me to fight against the very people that made me what I am today!"

As quickly as they came her words left her, and she realised that she was standing, her hands curled around her tea cup as if it were a weapon.

The silence stretched until it was so loud she almost covered her ears, and he just kept looking at her with that bemused smile on his perfectly formed lips. His eyes seemed calculating, as if she had done something unexpected and even amusing. She wanted to slap him, to crack his composure as he had hers.

Instead, she stood there, her bust heaving and her tea wobbling dangerously in its china clutch, and she met his eyes unwaveringly.

He unwound himself from his seat, his movements sinuous and hypnotising, as a snake. He clasped her clenched hands in his large warm ones, and wrapped around them as if they were something fragile and precious as his gaze held hers.

"I do understand," He said gently, "But I am not the monster that you have pictured me to be in your own mind."

_Stop looking for what isn't there. I am not what you are hoping I am._ It was as if he were standing right there, murmuring those words in her ear. But he lied! He lied: he was exactly what she thought he was!

"Tell me," The man in front of her said suddenly, "Have you ever been with a man?"

She blanched and stared at him, anger forgotten.

She was unsure of what he was insinuating but suspicious of what it could be. Her suspicions were confirmed when he moved one hand to trace the curve of her lip with his thumb, and then beyond, trailing delicately down her cheek and along her jawbone.

His dark eyes were like warm honey as he looked at her with affection that was anything but fatherly.

Shock and horror rattled her bones, and she jerked away from his touch as if she had been burned. Realising too late that she probably angered him, she tried to hide it by bringing her half full cup to her mouth and gulping it down.

She ended up coughing most of it back up anyway.

"I see," He said, that small, smug smile still firm upon his face as she spluttered unbecomingly. "I do hope that you change your mind."

He snapped his fingers, and an Arrancar male entered the room. His hair was green and was both short and long at the same time, with the long strands kicking about in all directions. His Hollow mask looked like a spikey leaf on his forehead.

"Thankyou for you time, Orihime." Aizen said, and stroked her face again, once, as if he could not quite tear himself from her flesh.

Politeness prevented her from physically shuddering, but something in her expression must have changed, for his eyes flickered with some unknown emotion. Nervously, she placed the sticky cup back on the table.

"See that our guest is taken back to her quarters," Aizen said. Green-hair bent so low that Inoue thought that he might break in half.

"Of course, King Aizen," His voice dripped in adoration, and he took her by the elbow and near steered her from the room. She had two choices; she could walk with him, or he could drag her (which he looked hellbent on doing), so she stumbled after him, nearly tripping over her own feet.

Scratch that; she did trip over her own feet. He just carried her along anyway.

She couldn't quite wrap her head around what had transpired in the huge room that he had asked her to visit. Didn't she just defy him?

She just said that she would never fight for him, and he hadn't even batted an eyelid...

She thought he would have been furious - she had basically told him that he was a monster, and he had seemed completely unfazed!

The white walls and doors passed her unnoticed as the man escorted her back to her room (They all looked the same anyway), so intent was she on her own thoughts...but something else was troubling her...more so than Aizen, more so than Ulquiorra or Grimmjow or anything else...she just had to know...

"Does your hair stay like that naturally?" She blurted out to the Arrancar by her side, "Or do you use gel?"

* * *

Wow, all natural. She wished _her_ hair had that kind of volume!

And that colour - like seaweed, she thought.

Yes, like seaweed. Nothing like those melancholy orbs that stare at her so balefully, so coldly. So full of loneliness.

Nothing like them at all.

She didn't fully understand what had gone on in that enormous room. Aizen had not seemed displeased until the very end, when she had rejected his touch. What had he been trying to accomplish?

_What had he meant by 'loyalty'?_

And most of all, what had he meant by _touching_ her?

Her head was so full of questions, chasing their tails and tripping over one another in their eagerness. They buzzed inside of her head like a swarm of curious bees, making it ache unpleasantly.

What made him change his mind? Why did he want her to fight for him as well now? Why had he touched her? Why had he said those things? Why now, after so long? Was he ever going to let her leave this little cell? And why...why did it seem as if he wasn't bothered by her refusal?

...No, not that. Why did he seem to expect that she would respond as she did?

She wasn't that predictable, was she?

She supposed she was, but why would Aizen want her to say 'No' to him?

She just wished people would be honest for once!

Orihime lifted the tray of her breakfast, which had obviously come while she was gone and was now long cold.

It wasn't even egg rolls.

The redhead sighed, and bit unenthusiastically into her soggy toast; It only had butter on it. It was all well and good, but she would have really liked something a little more exciting.

The food here was as dull as the decor.

She spent the rest of the day wondering what Aizen wanted, and poking at the lunch that they had so thoughtfully provided.


	7. Chapter 7

Ahh, an almost prompt update. How exciting.

She notices that she's passed the fifty review mark, which is wonderful indeed. As usual, comment, qualms and queries are very welcome.

Thankyou.

* * *

**Chapter Seven.**

It was a little peculiar, the way her heart jumped when he walked in.

It was an odd reaction if there ever was one.

His gait was calm (even), as it always was. He was resplendent in his own mask of alabaster indifference, as if he had no care in the world, and it was as if the last month had never happened. It was as if he hadn't pressed his lips to hers, and then completely abandoned her.

And it was funny that it didn't even cross her mind to be angry with him.

Instead, she merely said "Hello," around a mouth that had gone dry, and a throat thick.

He didn't reply. She knew he wouldn't, but she said it all the same.

Her dinner tray, brought in at the same time that he arrived, hunched close to him on the hideous little table, the silver mottled from his distorted reflection.

She thought it was a little odd that he had a reflection, because she secretly thought he looked kind of like a vampire, but she didn't dare say that out loud.

Never mind the fact that the first time she ever saw him was in broad daylight. However, predictably enough, the day that she first saw him standing quietly behind the hulking monster that was the Tenth Espada was not the day that stuck in her mind. Rather, it was the day that he had forced her to say goodbye to everybody she held dear.

How he had given her the chance to say farewell to one person that she was leaving behind, and given her the bracelet as if he was her beau; offering her a gift that promised commitment (and love). But it was not commitment that he gave her, but instead loneliness. And he was not her beau, but her warden. The man that brought her to this white washed prison - this pristine cell.

And she couldn't even say goodbye to the man she had loved the most. She couldn't move that _single inch_ and now he was gone.

Since her brother (and then Kurosaki), Ulquiorra was the only other man to ever have such a huge impact on her life. She should remember the evening that started it all. And she did, in particular vividness.

She smiled tremulously at him. To say without words that she was (not!) glad that he was there, because she knew if she actually said it out loud his response would be nothing but scathing.

His face remained stoic, but she didn't mind. Her eyes devoured him, as if she could commit him to memory, so she could have something, even just a recollection of him; white as bone, white as the walls that surrounded her, with those awfully green eyes. Just in case he didn't return again.

Just in case he left her for good.

_Would she hate that? Could she hate that? Could she even hate him?_

Her tray sat there; untouched - she knew her food would still be there later - she didn't know how long he would deign to remain there, with her.

His hands were buried deep in his pockets as he kept his eyes on her. He was looking at her peculiarly.

...Did she have something on her face?

She scrubbed at it vigorously with her sleeves. However, he was still giving her that odd look when she finally came up for air. She gave it up for a lost cause, and sat on her hands instead, swinging her feet like a child.

She could not say how long they remained this way. It seemed as if it was forever, but it could have only been a few minutes i(_time was eternity anyway_)/i. The Fourth Espada merely watched her while her feet moved back and forth, back and forth, like an impetuous metronome that refused to cease.

Tick Tock. Tick Tock.

Tick. Tock.

Tick.

Tock.

Ti --

He opened his mouth and spoke.

"King Aizen was informed that you had not been finishing your meals recently. I am here to ensure that you do so.

It's rather pathetic, that you need somebody to hold your hand as you do something as simple as consuming a meal."

The words were expected as much as the tone. The almost indeterminable scathing, the condescension that he viewed her – her kind – with, colouring his words like chalk on a blackboard. The tone bothered her right then, more than it ever did, because he had _kissed_ her – he had pressed his cold, cold lips to hers and maybe, just maybe she had pressed back (only a little). He couldn't – _shouldn't _speak that way, because he didn't view her with that same detached distaste with which he viewed everything else and she knew it!

"Oh," she said instead, quietly. Meekly.

And his dull eyes swept from her, to the food pointedly, and back again.

"I cannot wait here all evening," he continued, "I have more important things to do than babysit. Don't make me feed you again."

And again, she was meek. Meek as a mouse. Squeak Squeak.

Her mouse-limbs were heavy, unwilling to cooperate with her mind's instructions, but she moved to the chair, and sat down all the same.

A knife and fork today, she noted. Western food.

They were cool in her meek little paws.

As she ate obediently, she wondered why she was expecting him to act any differently at all. After all, he wasn't human.

He wasn't Kurosaki.

The food tasted like cardboard, but she wouldn't have enjoyed it even if it was the most sumptuous of meals.

He left, as soon as the last bite touched her lips.

* * *

_Ahem._

The odd sound pulled Orihime from the lucid, dreamy state she was basking in.

She groaned a little, and buried her face in her pillow. It was a little harder than she remembered.

_A-Hem._

It came again. She groaned, louder this time, and burrowed as deeply as she could into the bed. It was the same, every morning.

"Tatsuki," she muttered groggily, "I don't want to go today."

And so it began.

Orihime steeled herself as best one could when one is still mostly asleep. And for good reason, for usually at this point, Tatsuki would rip the covers off of Orihime's prone form. This violent manoeuvre would be accompanied by rather loud shouting about how the best student in school shouldn't be lazing about in bed all day, and hey, look, I've bought some lunch that my mother made. Won't that be nice?

Of course, after much complaint (and the reminder that Ishida was the first student now), Orihime always caved, and got up. This was usually because, if she didn't, Tatsuki would get her up.

The promise of homemade bento didn't exactly harden the deal, either.

But right now Orihime _really_ didn't want to get up, so she clung onto the bedspread as tightly as she could and silently willed her weight to quadruple. Maybe Tatsuki would give up after a while, and climb into bed with her. They could spend the day watching cheesy action movies, and perhaps even go out for ice cream. That would be nice.

After a few moments, the yanking of the bedcovers and the caterwauling still hadn't commenced. This was puzzling. Welcome, but puzzling all the same.

Wondering why it seemed that Tatsuki had already given up, even without the tug-of-war, Orihime cracked her eye open to see what was going on.

And let out a rather startled squawk.

The first thing that came to her mind was _Tatsuki, what have you done to your **face**_?"

But then everything came back to her with the subtlety of a falling rock. She wasn't in her bed in Kurakura town, avoiding school. She was in Hueco Mundo, her best friend wasn't there, and everyone who had come to save her was dead.

Her heart sunk into her stomach.

Blearily she looked around the room. Two silver trays were stacked haphazardly upon the small table behind a male Arrancar, who was looming over her, looking unimpressed.

"Your bath is ready," he told her in clipped tones, and then gestured with his arm for her to follow him to the bathing area.

_Bath? It's noon already?_ She would have opened her mouth to ask him how long she was asleep for, but she was getting to the point where she knew better now. He wouldn't have replied.

She peeled herself out of the bed, rubbed her eyes with a dirty sleeve, and trudged behind him, her heart like lead.

Nothing like a pleasant wake up to make you feel wonderful.

* * *

Bathing, however, was the balm for a wounded countenance.

Orihime didn't feel better, but the tears that had been prickling the back of her eyelids had ceased, and her heart had crawled back up into her chest where it sat rather despondently.

Her fingers were tangled in her damp hair, and she lay on her too hard, too cold bed, eyes flicking over a ceiling that had become much too familiar. Orihime found herself wishing, beyond reason, that someone was there with her, just so she didn't have to be alone.

She was so very, very alone.

_Where was Kurosaki?_

_

* * *

_

The moon in Hueco Mundo always seemed muted, as if the strain of always shining without pause took its toll, and rendered it dull.

It never changed. It was always the half crescent, the flash of smiling teeth in the night. Orihime always got the feeling that it wasn't a nice smile, but the Cheshire smirk of somebody that was about to do something iwrong/i, under the cover of darkness.

Time fell into itself. She never knew the precise when, she only knew that it was morning when they bought her breakfast, noon when they bought her lunch and gave her her bathing time, and time to go to bed when they took away what was left of her evening meal.

There were no days, not anymore. The constant night that snuck in through her window squatted on the edge of her conscious like a decrepit gremlin. She didn't know times any more than she knew the name of each and every star that didn't shine here, in a place that she was beginning to think, with much trepidation and more than a little suspicion, was hell.

It was funny. She had always thought hell to be red and full of flames, run by a little guy with a pitchfork and a goatee. Instead, it was lorded over by a handsome young-looking man with a smile that could melt any heart.

The door opened, a dry hiccup, and two Arrancar, dressed in solemn white entered without ceremony. They placed her silver tray upon her white table and left, with the severity of a funeral procession.

Ulquiorra followed them in, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his pants. He too, said nothing to her.

It was bedtime soon.

* * *

Breakfast was egg rolls. Finally.

They were plain, without sweet bean paste. But it was better than toast.

* * *

She had begun to watch the sands outside of her room (cell). They were the only thing that ever changed; the harsh winds pushing them around with the smug indifference of a schoolyard bully.

Still, she found it comforting.

There was a crack in her ceiling. She wondered why she hadn't noticed it earlier. Perhaps it was new.

* * *

That night Ulquiorra didn't come. Orihime ate every last bite, just to prove that she didn't need him to babysit her.

Never mind that she was full after the first two mouthfuls.

* * *

He came the next night, taking up his customary position close to the door, as if she was ill and highly contagious, and he didn't want to get any closer than he had to.

She ate quietly, the occasional clink of cutlery against china almost unnaturally loud in the sombreness.

It was almost oppressive. She never liked the quiet. Orihime had always associated silence with loneliness. It had been quiet after her parents left (just like that). Then her brother had made things noisy again, filled her life with yellow laughter and bright, bright love. But then he went away too, and it had been even quieter than before. Yet here, in Hueco Mundo, the silence was the worst.

"Your hole," she said, suddenly. "It's there to show that your heart is gone, isn't it?"

She dimly remembered being told so, most likely by Rukia, but at this moment she found she would appreciate a conversation. Any conversation. All conversation. It was too dull, too quiet here. She didn't like the quiet.

But he wouldn't take the bait. His silence was frigid. But she refused to give up. Not just yet.

"I was told that it's where the wound was that killed you." And then she thought about it. "But what about people that die of old age? Where is their hole?"

"Be quiet and finish your meal," Ulquiorra told her.

She did.

As she put down her knife and fork (she'd never understand why she was given those most of the time, she much preferred chopsticks - western cutlery was awkward in her hands), another question came to mind.

"Do you remember dying?"

It was a morbid question, but somehow, in this place that reeked of death it seemed more appropriate than any askance of the weather. It wasn't as if it changed, anyway.

He said nothing, and she resigned herself to him ignoring her again. Instead, she tidied up the remnants of her plate.

"A part of the price of becoming an Arrancar is trading every memory of your human life." He said, unexpectedly.

She was surprised, more by him answering than by the answer itself. She wondered if she could give up the memories of her life, when she died. If she could give up the memories of Kurosaki.

"What's the full price?" She asked, overwhelmingly curious.

"Unwavering loyalty," Ulquiorra's voice was flat, indicating the end of the conversation.

It made sense. After all, she had doomed herself to an unknown period of isolation because she refused to give Aizen hers.

Orihime was silent, for a while.

She packed up the small platter, the glass, the jug, making as much noise as possible, breaking up the quiet. The pile of dishes that she made teetered precariously, but when she tried to rearrange it, it nearly fell, and after steadying it, Orihime figured it was probably best left to its own devices.

Plus, Ulquiorra would probably tell her off if she broke anything.

A thorough examination of the small tower reassured her that everything was steady...well, steady enough, and shoving her hands on her hips, she nodded in satisfaction.

And then it was quiet again.

"What does it feel like?" She said, suddenly.

"What does what feel like?"

She knew that he hated questions, and he was probably getting annoyed with her, but curiosity overwhelmed her anyway. She had to know. Just like she had to know whether the puppy she had seen was as soft as it looked, or whether leek tasted good in pancakes (it did).

She was walking towards him, and her heels clicked loudly, echoing. They sounded like determination.

_Tap. Tap. Tap__._

Three times (There's no place like home).

"A Hollow hole," she said, and she was right in front of him, and her little paw, as bold as a lion's, was outstretched towards him.

He tried to step back, to retreat from her questing fingers, his eyes slightly wide with surprise, but he wasn't fast enough.

Her fingers swiped the inside of that expanse of flesh that was not; they swiped the inside of _nothingness_. No, not nothingness. There was something there, but it was something repulsive. Something horrible. Something that her soul protested against.

It screamed, and her body thrummed in time with it. It was _wrong_, it was revolting. It felt like it wanted to suck her in, to force her to become one with the nature that was _hollow_. That was Hollow.

A black hole, a Black Hole. The desire to be filled, to be whole (hole). It hungered for all of her goodness, all of her purity. She knew this without a doubt. It hungered to take it all, to _consume_ her. To consume **everything**.

She cried out.

The sound mingled with his hiss, his choked gasp.

He jerked away, short of throwing himself backwards away from her, and she snatched her fingers away, as if she had been burned. In a way, she had been.

The other hand was clamped against her mouth, to fight away the nausea. Sickness. The tips of the offending digits tingled with _wrong_. Her entire body _burnt_ with the wrong.

She wiped her fingers against the material of her jacket, as if she could wipe away that feeling, that utter horror that had flooded her upon touching the evidence of his hollowness. His Hollowness. His body's need to consume all that was decent, to make it exactly as he was.

And her heart was full of dismay, as she stared at him, as if she had only finally begun to understand the nature that was Hollow.

And in truth, she had.

His jaw was clenched. His eyes were tight at the edges.

"Do not ever try to do that again," he said, flatly. "Do not ever touch me again."

She was overwhelmed with guilt. She felt as if she had peeked into his personal life, as if she had opened the door to his soul, opened his personal diary, so to speak, and she had read in there all of the darkness that he had become (or always was?).

"I'm sorry," She tried to say, but the words came out stuttered, unfinished.

"I am not something you can soften, to win over with wiles."

And she didn't understand. His words were puzzling, hurtful, confusing. And he, perhaps, read in her face her bewilderment, because he made a sound of disgust.

"You stupid woman, you don't even know what it is you have done."

And she didn't. But she straightened her back, tall against his attack, because she knew she was not stupid.

He turned his back abruptly, as if he could no longer stand the sight of her.

He stalked out, the door opening to receive him with that grind. "You are foolish. You attempt to forget that I am a monster, but it was you who labelled me as such in the beginning." His words were cold, a dash of ice water. Words she had uttered, he threw back at her with a vindictive delight.

And she stood there, her back still pointlessly straight, a ramrod of iron, of something resembling self pride. But her heart was sinking, slowly, because she had witnessed, firsthand, that the words she had uttered, those words she had regretted, were true.

Every single one of them.


	8. Chapter 8

Everything was red. Red and hot. Red, and cold, so so cold.

Cold. _Agony._ Sensation. Wet. _Agony_. More sensation.

_Colour._

Brilliant red. Sanguine, crimson, ruby red. Roses (_pretty petal pins, flowers in her hair)_, fire. _Red._

A gasp. Stuttered breath. One, and then another. Agony. Eyes unable to open. Agony. A hand. Own, or another's? Unable to tell.

Black. Dried blood. White. Bone. Decay.

Another breath. A gulp of air.

Air that tasted red. Tasted of fire.

_Tasted of __**life.**_

_**

* * *

  
**_

_**

* * *

**_

She decided to put the note at the end instead of the beginning this time. Partly because it's short, and partly so you didn't have to wade through the nonsense to get to the exciting bit. She is a little excited about this, actually, despite the size.

First of all, she wants to say thankyou to everyone who reviewed. A special thankyou to Icarus, and to Crystal and Hinodeh, Icarus for your compliments, and to Crystal and Hinodeh for taking the time to review for each chapter. Your feedback is very appreciated. However, someone did mention a few things, and she wanted to take some time out to explain herself.

Firstly, it was said that the style of the story did change rather dramatically. She is experimenting with a different writing style in a totally different fiction, which she is writing at the same time as TCITBE. So one has sort of bled into the other, and even she noticed it was a little different. As long as it isn't a step back from her previous writing style, though, she isn't worried. Good news is, expect another Orihime x Ulquiorra fiction at some point! This is an AU, and she very excited about it.

Also, it was said that people who died of old age cannot become Hollow, because it wasn't a painful death. She had thought that Hollow could not only be created from a traumatic death or by being bad people when they are alive, but also by plus souls who had slipped through the radar and been attacked (as souls) by Hollow, or just because they had been left too long, and their soul link consumed itself. She could be wrong; she will double check this. However, do keep in mind that this is Orihime speaking, and just because she has said it, does not mean it is applicable.

After all, the girl wants to be a robot.


	9. Chapter 9

She doesn't have much of an excuse for being so tardy, other than she got a little caught up with her new fiction - which should be out later on this week, hopefully.

She hopes this chapter offers more insight into the previous chapter - thanks to the many, many people that have reviewed, and continue to read this fiction. And a special thanks to softwelshrain, who BETAs so well.

* * *

**Chapter Nine**

The next evening, when the door coughed open, she barely glanced up from the hairpins held between her fingertips, not wanting to confirm what she already knew. She doubted that he would come then, or the next day, or even the day after that.

And a part of her was relieved by that, but the small, ugly part in her snorted and told her that she wasn't relieved, not really, because a Hollow is better than nobody at all.

So when she saw him, Ulquiorra, his silhouette sharp against the faux light of Hueco Mundo and casting an eerie shadow on her white white walls, she stifled a squeak of surprise.

He had shunned her for reasons milder than this one before (never mind that the other one was _his_ fault), and it was with true surprise that she stared at him. She was unable to react, to greet him with anything but a weak smile, strained, hints of gratitude peeking through the cracks.

She said nothing to him that evening, partly in a sort of apology for what she had instigated, and partly because she didn't quite know what she could say. The incident of the previous evening had burnt her in all of the wrong ways, and she didn't quite know how to act around him now.

He too, remained silent, but that was more out of a natural inclination than anything, she thought. It was awkward, _she_ was awkward, but she thought that perhaps that was better than him not being there at all.

The food quickly disappeared, and so did he.

* * *

The next night, he came again, and this time she mustered the courage to say hello. He said nothing in return, but the silence that swallowed her greeting was not as biting, as icy as it could have been, and she took solace in that.

She wondered if he had already forgiven her, and wanted to ask, but in the end, decided against it. After what she had discovered, she didn't know if he could.

She didn't want to risk it, anyway. Any company is good company, after all.

* * *

The night after that, she said she was sorry. She wasn't sure whether she was apologising for what she had done, or for what he was. For what he couldn't feel, for what he would never know, what he would always be lacking in (a heart, a red warm heart).

There was true sincerity, compassion, in her voice, and he acknowledged it with a blank stare, before ignoring her completely.

And things would never be normal, but she knew now that they could still work.

As best they could, anyway.

* * *

A question came to Orihime Inoue while she was enthusiastically tucking into the noodle dish that whoever or whatever had decided to feed her that night. It made her pause, and it sent a little pang straight through her. The chopsticks dropped carelessly.

It was funny, how she hadn't thought of it before. And how important it seemed.

"What day is it?" She asked him, curious and wistful.

He said nothing for the longest time.

"It's irrelevant," he told her eventually.

She could not help the heavy sigh that fell from her lips, as her cheek rested on her knuckles, and an idle hand collected a chopstick to prod at the quivering mass of winding white and green. "I wish I knew," she said, not really to him, or even to herself.

His voice did not change when he said, "Sometimes it's better not to know," and her eyes swung to his. He stared at her dully, but somehow, she was comforted all the same.

Her lips curved up into the gentlest of smiles.

He merely looked right through her.

* * *

Orihime spent the day doing handstands.

She had done nothing short of bouncing out of her bed that morning, filled with an inexplicable energy that made her fingertips tingle and her brain trip over itself thinking and thinking and thinking andthinkingandthinkingand_thinkingthinkingthinking!_

It was the sort of nervous energy that filled her when she was going to a fair, or grocery shopping, or when she had Art class and she had finished a masterpiece the previous night, and she was _certain_ that her teacher would like this one!

Days like that, unbeknownst to Orihime, would fill Tatsuki with dread, because by the time she arrived at Orihime's to escort her to school, the girl was already up and had made them both a generous breakfast. And, of course, Tatsuki would choke down every last bite, because she could never refuse Orihime anything, and eating her food was just another trial to be endured.

It was a pity that Orihime wouldn't do everything that Tatsuki wanted. Or, even if she knew what Tatsuki wanted.

If Orihime had been a little less naive, if her head wasn't so much in the clouds, perhaps she would have realised a few things about Tatsuki, about her willingness to give, and her need to protect her closest friend that would have thrown her utter devotion into a different light.

But she wasn't, and therefore she didn't, and so she never caught the looks that Tatsuki cast her when her back was turned. And if she ever did, she never thought anything of them.

Indeed, few thoughts of Tatsuki crossed Orihime's mind when she was parading around her little room upside down, her jacket flopping about her ears in an undignified manner. Her nose was screwed up in concentration, and she was frowning with the effort.

_Five, six, seven__._

She fell in an ungraceful heap, before recovering. She leapt up and gave herself a little cheer. Seven seconds! A new record!

Just wait until she told Tatsuki!

...And then she remembered that Tatsuki wasn't there to tell.

* * *

Dinner was an unceremonious affair. She considered telling Ulquiorra that she managed to stand on her hands for seven seconds, but she didn't think he would really care.

She would just have to tell Tatsuki when she finally got back from Hueco Mundo, she thought adamantly, and steadfastly ignored the little voice, the one that asked her if she really thought that it would happen.

She had gotten very good at ignoring that little voice.

* * *

_"Do you know what I miss most?" She asked the empty air of her cell._

_He ignored her, but she wasn't really talking to him anyway._

_She turned towards the window. "It's the sun on my face," she murmured, closing her eyes against the ice of the moon, and imagined a warmth that wasn't there._

_She heard the hiss of the door as it opened, and when she turned around, he was gone._

_It was then that she realised that he never got to see the sun, either._

_

* * *

  
_

The cold of the room made her bones ache. That white light (well, not light, because it didn't illuminate, so much as emphasise the darkness. Anti-light?) threw the entire cell into gloom, seeming almost to suck the warmth out. She kept the light on, but it never made a difference.

Her accommodation was always dominated by shadows.

She noticed, a long time ago, that the bone of Ulquiorra's helmet seemed to reflect that odd light. Shining like the armour of an English medieval Knight, the ones she saw in history books.

Always saving a damsel in distress.

But when she allowed her flights of fancy to overtake her, it was always Ulquiorra who was the dragon, and Ichigo who was her shining Knight in armour, wielding his Zanpakutou and holding her as she swooned. Of course she swooned. She was a damsel.

Until one night, when it was Aizen who was the monster, an enormous dragon with pleasant brown eyes and a flicking forked tongue, who breathed poison, and the man who burst through and saved her was Ulquiorra. His face impassive as he slew The Dragon King.

It was then that she wondered why it was that the Espada were white, and the Shinigami were black, because aren't the good guys supposed to be in white?

_He wore black_

_And I wore white, _

And she leant on the window sill, her eyelids shut against the ice of the moon while she hummed a tune she hadn't heard in years.

_He would always win the fight_

_Bang Bang._

_

* * *

  
_

_The air seemed to be made of swords. Souls swords. _

_Zanpakutou. _

_Agony. Can't breathe. Pain. Cold. So cold. Always cold. _

_**Fever, or despair?**_

_A voice. Soothing. Salve._

_Sleep, it said. And he did._

_

* * *

  
_

She had dreamt that Kurosaki was still alive. That he had saved her, and Ulquiorra had turned into a giant monster with snakes for hair, his white face glowing like the moon. And then the monster was Aizen, who laughed and laughed and laughed.

When she awoke, she still fancied that she could feel the warmth of Ichigo's body beneath her fingertips.


End file.
